Casualties of War
by miichan2
Summary: When the war with Voldemort begins, Remus Lupin and Draco Malfoy are the first casualties. Warnings: contains references to rape, torture, death and mm relationships. HarryDraco, RemusSirius and onesided RemusSnape
1. Casualties of War: Remus Lupin

Casualties of War: Remus Lupin: Intro

By Hans Bekhart 

Notes and Warnings: Very, very darkfic.  References to rape, character death, violence.  Extreme werewolf agony.  Will contain M/M relationships later in the series.  Theories on Remus' transformation were taken from RagePoint's wonderful thread on a href="; "Traumatic Magic"/a from the Werewolf Registry board, and an gigantic thank you to her for permission to use it.

            Remus Lupin hasn't cried yet.  It's been over three weeks and he hasn't let go of so much of a single tear.  It's the only thing he can still be proud of, the only thing that keeps him even a little bit sane.  He thinks that he's soiled himself a number of times, and can smell vomit on himself almost constantly, but he hasn't cried.  He hasn't screamed, either, he's pretty sure of that, even under Cruatius.  He's gotten pretty accustomed to pain, after all; thirty-odd years of being a werewolf have finally paid off for him.  He doesn't think he's told them anything, but he can't be anymore sure of that than he can be sure that Sirius is still alive.

There had only been a few people at Headquarters, he knew if he stretched his mind back.  Arabella and Tonks and himself and maybe one or two of the Weaselys.  It had been dinnertime.  It was soon after the full moon, and they were thanking their lucky stars that Snape had left a supply of the Wolfsbane potion for him, for he had been incommunicado with the Order for almost a month.  Sirius had been as stubbornly convinced that "Snivellius" had betrayed them as Albus was stubbornly convinced that he was loyal.  He had just gotten out his "special" utensils, the Black family cutlery that wasn't goblin silver and then – nothing.  He remembers nothing.  No explosions or fighting or yelling or even pain.  No warning of any sort.  His memory leaps forward, from staring into cabinets with an idle thought that he'd hunt that spider down after dinner, to this.

            His room has four walls and no doors, no windows.  There is no lamp but he doesn't expect one.  After all, this is Lord Voldemort's domain, and Remus doesn't think there's any kind of Muggle influences lying around.  He's guessed that the light inside his room dims or brightens according to the sun, but has no way of knowing: he hasn't even figured out how the Death Eaters are getting into his room.

They take him out, they put him back in.  He's lost count of how many times they've taken him to Voldemort, or one of his lieutenants (he supposes; how they know who is who behind the masks is anybody's guess).  Sometimes it seems they must come for him twice an hour, other times it feels as though he is left alone for days.  Tonks lasted for three days.  They put her back and Remus gathered her up when she couldn't get off the floor.  She had been beaten so savagely – with magic? With fists?  He didn't know – that she could barely talk.  "I sewed it up," she whispered to him, a faint smile on her face.  "I wouldn't let them get me, so I made it go away and they hated it."  Like Shakespeare's Lavinia she had pleaded to die a virgin, and she succeeded.  He hadn't known she could do something like that to her body.  She died during the night and he covered her with the only blanket they had been left with.  Since then, he had been alone: they take him out, they put him back in.  He isn't as lucky as Tonks, to be able to close up orifices at will.

Sirius hasn't come for him so Sirius must be dead.  It is the only thing he allows himself to think about.  He hasn't been rescued, so Sirius was dead.  It is a simple equation that doesn't include any other people from the Order.  He doesn't want to think about why he hasn't been rescued.  He doesn't want to think about what has happened in the last three weeks, what has happened to Severus and Harry and Hermoine and all the Weaselys and Hogwarts.  For all he knows, it could have been Severus, masked and anonymous, hurling curses at him, wrenching his legs apart last night.

When his eyes are closed someone comes in and leaves a smoking goblet on the floor in front of him.  He can smell that it isn't Severus or anyone he knows, and he can smell that it is the Wolfsbane potion.  So Severus **is** here, wherever here is, and brewing potions.  He's surprised; he had the idea that they were letting him live to serve as a living weapon.  Moony wouldn't know the difference between friend and foe; he'd kill whoever was closest to him, wherever they set him loose.  Remus has vowed to kill himself before he allows himself to be used in such a manner, although in his current situation he wouldn't know how to manage it.  He stares at the goblet curiously, pushing himself up on his elbows and taking a deep sniff.  It smells different, he thinks, than it usually does.  He weighs his options carefully; having no control over his actions, or trusting to fate.  It isn't likely to be poison, after all; if they wanted to kill him, a simple "Avada Kevadra" would do nicely, and if Voldemort had anybody as good at brewing potions as Severus, then their spy probably would have been dead ages ago.  Despite Sirius whining that Remus wouldn't take his side, he was definitely in Dumbledore's camp.  It was hard to mistrust a person who had spent two years brewing a monthly dose of certain death if not made properly.  Remus had been putting his life in Severus' hands for too long not to simply trust him, if only that he was too tired to do anything else.  In any case, the difference might be a change of only one ingredient, and what if it was added to help Remus escape?  Maybe Severus added something that would allow him to see where the exit was.  He fixes that thought firmly in his mind and swallows the potion.

            This scene is repeated the next day, another potion appearing from nowhere when he is sleeping.  He is glad, at least, for something to mark the time.  He rolls the goblet on the floor and enjoys the sound that it makes, the only sound he's heard inside the room since Tonks died.   They take him out, later, in what he thinks is night, and all he can remember later through his haze of pain is the smile on Voldemort's shrunken face, the gleam in his red eyes.  He limps around the room simply to feel the aches in his body, recount the damage done to him.  

            Tomorrow is the full moon.  He can feel it when he wakes, a thrum of energy around him.  He paces all day, and fights the Death Eaters when they come for him.  He is only thrown to the floor and beaten worse than usual for his pains.  When they bring him back he sits with his back against the wall and pants, openmouthed.  It was a habit that he tried hard to break when he first came to Hogwarts, like smelling people.  All he really managed to do was be subtle about it, but he doesn't feel a shred of guilt as his teeth are bared, breathing harsh and audible.  Moonrise was only hours away, he could feel it.  His bones ached for hours beforehand, his body almost yearning for the change.  But when it comes, he is never ready for it.

            It starts with his bones.  He's studied skeletal diagrams of humans and wolves, he's studied anatomy books.  He's learned to count down the changes that take place in his body, more so since he started taking the Wolfsbane Potion and stopped losing consciousness midway through.  There's more pain by far, to be sure, and it takes him longer to recuperate – nearly a week, compared to only one or two days without – but he wouldn't go back for all the Galleons in the world.

            It starts with his bones.  Every bone in his body cracks, breaks and warps as it tries to rearrange itself in a new body.  The mending of the bones is nearly as painful as the breaking, but it doesn't compare to the agony of his muscles tearing off the bones and rewrapping themselves around the new skeleton, the rerouting of the veins, nerves and arteries through his frame.  It takes maybe the span of half a minute.  The part he dreads most is when his heart stops as the transformation hits the cardiac muscle.  His organs come to a shuddering halt and he can feel them shifting in his body, to avoid being punctured by his new ribcage.  The worst part of it, though, is while his heart is stopped, he can do nothing but stare dumbly at the wall, unable even to scream as his diaphragm seizes, unable to contract or relax as the muscles of his chest are stretched or contracted beyond capacity.

            The last thing to go is his skull, an experience he was blissfully unaware of until he began taking the Potion.  He hasn't allowed his mind to cope with it yet, as he has coped with every other aspect of the transformation.  He can't even close his eyes or look away from the horror of it, as extrinsic muscles tear themselves away from his eyeballs.  He becomes able to breathe again just as his skull shatters itself into more pieces than he'd be able to count and his jawbone and nose begin to stretch.  His teeth do not automatically become those of a wolf; rather a new set tears through his gums every month.  He is only able, by this point, to offer a brief prayer that the werewolf is so large, that his brain does not have to undergo the same violent wrenching.  After all of this, growing fur and a tail almost feels like a gentle tickle.

            He ticks it off in his mind, when he can stand it, as he transforms in Voldemort's prison.  The bones break, the heart stops, the lungs stop, his hands shatter and the thumb bones draw up his arm, waiting for the change into paws, leaving the flesh of his thumb hanging grotesquely off of his human hand.  He waits with eyes scrunched closed as he is able to breathe again, until the realization comes to him that he can move his eyes and the transformation is not complete.  Through the haze of agony from every component of his body, he labors to open his eyes.  He is no longer transforming, his body is no longer changing but has halted at the midpoint, still broken and mutilated.  Eyes open wide as he stares down at the ruin of his body, unable to move and feeling the pressure of splinters of ribs against his every breath, Remus finally begins to scream.


	2. Casualties of War: Draco Malfoy

Casualties of War: Draco Malfoy: Intro

By Hans Bekhart

Notes and Warnings: Very, very darkfic.  References to character death, rape, violence.  There will be M/M relationships later in the series.

            Draco Malfoy coughs up blood as he struggles into awareness.  He can't remember where he is, at first, or why it's so dark.  He lies on his back and tastes blood in his mouth.  He squeezes his eyes shut and gasps for air.  He can feel grass underneath him, hear the whispering of trees above him.  He is outside, then.  His stomach twists and he barely manages to whip onto his side before vomiting, choking on it.  The spasms seem to last for hours, and he barely has the presence of mind to wipe his mouth before sliding over onto his back again.  He wants to move away from the mess he's just made, but can't seem to communicate the desire to his body.  Every breath hurts.  He smells burned flesh through the vomit still on his face, but it takes him some time to remember why, exactly, he smells it.

            He pulls himself to a sitting potion, shaking.  His lips tremble and he fights back tears for the first time in years.  He can't open his eyes yet, and see what is only inches away from him.  He remembers what it is, or was.  He has the insane urge to reach out and touch it.  He remembers why he's here, in the middle of the woods, alone.  He doesn't remember why he's still alive, whether there's a reason for it.  He gives up and curls himself into a fetal position, still not looking at the charred mass next to him that used to be a human being.  He gives up and lets the darkness swallow him.

            He is surprised again when he wakes and it is morning.  The smell of the corpse has saturated his senses and he gags on it.  His body tries to vomit again, but there is nothing left inside of him.  He shakes with the effort anyway, wiping at the string of fluid that was the only thing he could get his stomach to give up.  He staggers to his feet, desperate to get away from – from the body, god he almost used its name, and the puddle on the other side of him, the product of last night.  He lurches toward and almost collapses against the closest tree, and only then realizes that he is nearly naked.  This fact overwhelms him in a way the corpse and his badly wounded and humiliated state have not, and he burst into tears.  He looks back and sees the ruin of his pants and robes on the ground, and yanks on the remnants of his shirt desperately, trying to cover himself.  He sinks to his knees and it is some time before he can rise again, his hand still clenched on the bottom of his shirt.

            It is this way that he makes his way through the forest, a direction picked at random.  There is no thought, no plans in his head.  He thinks he walks for hours, stumbling.  He leans on trees whenever he falls down, and pushes himself from one tree to the next to keep going.  The option of giving up will cross his mind in a while, but now there is only the need to keep moving, to get away from that thing in the clearing.  Her screams to him echo in his head and even now, after all that has happened, the thought still freezes him: _I should have done something._  He can still feel the beat of her heart against his chest.

            It is with no great surprise that he sees Hogwarts rising in the distance, that he was in the Forbidden Forest the whole time.  He sags against a tree and stares at the castle without seeing it, trying to summon the willpower to cross the grounds as he is, filthy and hurt and nearly naked.  He can't do it, can't let people see him like that.  The shame of his body overwhelms the need not to hurt any more, to be clean.  A sob escapes him and he turns away from salvation, stumbling into the forest with no idea of what to do.  He only looks up when the centaur is directly in front of him.  Firenze's appearance only terrifies him; he hasn't seen a centaur since his detention with Hagrid and Potter, his first year.  He scoops Draco up as the boy tries to flee, and gallops towards the castle with a hard expression on his face that is the last thing he sees as he passes out once more.  

            Regaining consciousness is like fighting through layers of cotton.  He is dizzy and thinks that he might be sick again.  He can barely open his eyes: the light blinds him, the white blinds him.  He smells antiseptic and the bed he is lying on has scratchy sheets.  A moan is the only sound that he can make.  Immediately, he feels pressure on his hand and hears a voice speaking.  The voice drifts away, the words incoherent and forgotten immediately, but he clings to it anyway, chasing it back to awareness.  He opens his eyes and Professor Snape sits in the chair next to his hospital bed, something akin to worry darkening his eyes.

            For just a moment, Draco basks in the attention of his teacher, security an automatic response before he feels the bottom of his stomach drop.  He yanks his hand away, too afraid even to speak.  _Death Eater.__  My father's friend.  Voldemort – oh god, they know where I am, they'll come to get me – _

            Snape snatches at his wrists, hissing.  Panic rises in Draco's chest.  He never wanted to die, never wanted anything like this to happen (_I should have done something_) it is all he can do not to scream for Pansy, and as his eyes roll back inside his head it all floods to the front.

            She didn't want to (_neither did I)_ and screamed and kicked while they all stood and watched two of the adults hold her down and.  They were the only ones unmasked, their children, the sons and daughters, she didn't want to.  _Neither did I._  They wouldn't have hurt her if she had just let them brand her, it wouldn't have been any worse than what happened to the rest of them.  They wouldn't have hurt her but she kept screaming his name, kept calling to him, help me help me while he stood there, numbly, _I should do something._  Stood there when they ripped her clothes, the marks on her body plain for everyone to see.  _I should do something.  When she broke away and ran for him, his arms closed around her automatically, and held her tight.  He could feel the beat of her heart against his chest, and they sunk to their knees together as the Death Eaters closed in, faces buried in each other's necks.  Two lost children in the woods, and she clung to his hand even when they tore her away and pinned them both down and – and – and even when they lit her ablaze her fingers were locked to his, no matter how hard he tried to pull away.  He tried to pull away from her, it hurt so badly, he didn't want to. _

            He didn't want to. 


	3. Casualties of War: Visit to St Mungos

Casualties of War: Waking to Darkness

By Hans Bekhart

Notes and Warnings: Not much in this chapter.  Mentions of M/M relationships, a bit of swearing.  A bad dream, a little squick involving Remus' thumb … but not in the way you're thinking.

Acknowledgements: To my absolutely wonderful betas, Max and Kat.  To my unending source of inspiration and papays, Manna A. Lagopus.

            They came for Harry in the dead of night, three tense Aurors that he had never seen before.  They whisked him out of Privet Drive in silence and Apparated to what he guessed was St. Mungo's Hospital.  Harry had never Apparated before; the experience left him slightly dizzy, and it took him a while to puzzle out where they had ended up.  He could tell it was a hospital, if only by the number of sick and injured wizards sitting around, and the only magical hospital he could call to mind was St. Mungo's.  He wanted to ask one of the Aurors if that was, indeed, where they were, but could no more voice the question than he could ask who was hurt or killed.  He quickly lost track of where they were going, but gamely followed as they led him through twisty corridors and oddly named wards, floors full of oddly injured wizards and witches that eyed him dolefully as they walked by.  They climbed rickety staircases lined with portraits of rather frightening looking Healers that called out to them as they passed, offering obscure and puzzling advice.  They didn't have too far to go: Third Floor.  The small window set into the double doors that marked the beginning of the new floor said POTION AND PLANT POISIONING.  He was a little surprised to see Professor McGonagall waiting for him instead of Dumbledore or a Weasley; she rose to her feet when she spied him approaching.  He stared at her as she curtly dismissed the Aurors, a cold feeling settling in his chest: _I can't take any more of this._

He hadn't even known about the Order of the Phoenix the last time he was stolen away in the middle of the night and told that people were dead.  His neighbor, Mrs. Figg. He hadn't even known she was a Squib.  Charley Weasley.  An Auror he hadn't even known, a girl barely older than himself.  And Professor Lupin.  Sirius had been there that night, miraculously, and Harry had held Sirius numbly while his godfather cried, unable to shed a tear.  He'd never seen an adult cry over something that mattered before, almost couldn't understand it.  Now, in the hospital, he can't understand the expression on McGonagall's face as she studied him in return, a mixture of pity and horror.  "Potter," she said, in a more gentle tone of voice than he had ever heard her use before.

"Is it Dumbledore?"  The question burst out of him, and he wanted to slap a hand over his mouth in disgust. It wasn't even a relief when she shook her head; it only meant that somebody else was behind the closed door she kept glancing to.  He couldn't ask if it is Sirius, didn't know if he could handle Sirius being –   

            "Remus Lupin has been found," she said gravely.  Harry felt the world spin around him, and he heard his own voice, as if from a great distance, accusing.

            "You said he was dead."

            She hesitated, for just an instant, and Harry held his breath, but all she did was exhale and shut her eyes.  "We thought he was."  Carefully, she reached out and steered him into one of the chairs that lined their stretch of hallway, seating him to face her.  He allowed her to, the hope that had leapt into his chest warring with the coldness that had been all he'd been able to feel recently.  "Potter," she said seriously. "You know we found bodies.  Four of them, the same number of …" She trailed off helplessly.  "With Moody being indisposed, there was no way to properly identify them, and we simply assumed …" She cleared her throat, and Harry wanted to scream at the sorrow in her eyes.  "Harry, Professor Lupin has been Voldemort's captive for over a month.  He regained consciousness only about thirty minutes ago, so we don't know exactly what's happened to him yet.  He's been through things that are nearly unimaginable, and I want you to keep that in mind when you see him.  He might not seem like himself for a long time." She took another deep breath, and a shadow passed over her face.  "Something halted his transformation mid-way through, and he's very badly injured.  Professor Dumbledore is with him now, but it's only thanks to Professor Snape that he's alive at all.  They're doing all they can to help him, but remember to be very quiet while in the room, and not to touch him."  She stood up a little too quickly and looked down at him, asking silently if he was ready.  He followed her, and took a deep breath as they passed through the doorway, a question burning in the back of his mind: Snape?  _Snape_ saved Lupin?

            Harry had never been in a hospital before, but he had seen them on television, and the first thing he thinks when they enter the room is that it looked nothing like a Muggle hospital.  Absent are the softly beeping, ominous-looking medical instruments, the metal bars on the bed.  The room was lit by softly glowing candles set in what looked like soap bubbles floating in clusters along the ceiling.  Lupin's bed was the only bed in the long room, and two figures were seated on either side of it, glowing faintly, their hands stretched over the supine figure underneath.  Snape was slumped in a chair in the far corner of the room, his face a mask;  bizzarely, he held a miniature witch's hat loosely between his hands, topped with a stuffed vulture.  Harry rounded the bed slowly, following McGonagall's lead, looking first into Dumbledore's face and then into the face of the witch sitting across from him before he could look into the bed itself. 

            It didn't look like a human being was lying in the bed.  Under the blankets, there were hills and hollows that weren't supposed to belong to a human being, the curve of the belly and spine, the way the legs didn't seem to be there at all.  Lupin's face was visible above the blankets, as well as his hand, which stuck out in an unnatural angle.  His eyes were open, his mouth slightly parted; he stared at nothing as Dumbledore and the witch slowly knitted his body back into the shape it was supposed to be.  Harry could see the shifting of bones in the hand and felt sick in a very far-off kind of way.  Lupin's eyes focused on Harry, finally, as the boy stood at the side of his bed, wordless, and his mouth almost curled into a smile.  His lips moved: _Harry.  Alive.  So glad_.  His fingers twitched unexpectedly, beckoning Harry forward.  Before he could take a step McGonagall put a hand on his shoulder, holding him firmly in place.  Harry watched with distant eyes the slow slide of the bones inside Remus' thumb as they crept back into place, and thought that maybe he would be sick after all.  "I'm sorry, Professor," he whispered as he backed away.  

            Snape and McGonagall followed him out into the hallway and exchanged glances when he sat on the floor, purposefully ignoring the chairs beside him.  McGonagall seated herself stiffly in a chair, but Snape remained standing, arms folded over his chest.  He didn't look at Harry; he stared off into the distance with a deeply unsettled look on his face, twitching that stupid hat in one hand and giving the impression that he wanted badly to pace.  Harry stared at the ground and was only slightly aware that was he rocking back and forth.  He didn't want to throw up in the hallway, didn't want to throw up in front of Snape.  McGonagall looked as though she wanted to pat him on the shoulder, but only settled her hands in her lap and looked to Snape.

            "Lucon," Snape started, and then stopped, looking thoughtful.  "It's the only possibility.  Used in growth inhibiting potions, most commonly." He shook his head. "I don't see how Lupin managed to ignore that the Potion was a different color."

            "He's color-blind," Harry said softly.  The adults looked to him, and he looked back.  "Sirius told me.  He sees in black and white, like a wolf."  For a moment he thought that Snape would snarl at him for knowing the answer, but the anger in Snape's eyes vanished quickly, leaving possibilities Harry didn't want to think about.  For a moment, Snape lost his mask, his inscrutability, and Harry could see a tired, aging man underneath it.  For a moment he thought he could see the hopelessness in Snape's eyes.  

            As if he could feel Harry's gaze physically, Snape closed his eyes.  "Minerva, I'm going to check on Malfoy."  He gifted them with a bitter smile.  "I think he's almost convinced I'm not here to kill him."  He turned on a heel and they watched him stride down the hallway.  Harry let him get fifteen paces away before turning to glare at McGonagall.

            "Malfoy?" he spat. He was almost grateful for the distraction, an excuse not to think about the misshapen form inside the room.  "What's a _Malfoy_ doing here?"

            McGonagall's expression hovered somewhere between amused and sharp.  He could almost see the first comment that came to her mind before she decided to be tactful: _Well, this is__ a hospital, Potter.  "Draco Malfoy was found in the Forbidden Forest two days ago.  He was nearly killed by Death Eaters for an attempt to save a Slytherin girl named Pansy Parkinson from being brutalized."  She twisted her fingers as she spoke, and Harry stared at her hands instead of her face.  "Unfortunately, he was unsuccessful, and she was killed."  Harry was on the verge of scoffing: _If that's what his story is.  As if Malfoy would ever try and help anyone,_ but McGonagall cut him off with a rather unnerving look.  "Snuffles will be coming to visit, later, when the Healers have gone.  We've set up a Portkey for him, but he won't be able to be here for a few more hours.  There is a tearoom upstairs.  Perhaps you'd like to wait there."  She stood up and strode briskly towards the end of the hallway, not waiting for an answer.  It took him a moment to stand, and he fell in step a few feet behind her._

            Of course, there were more staircases to climb.  Harry only lasted half a flight of steps before he decided to risk his question: "How did Snape save Lupin?"

            "_Professor Snape, Potter," she replied absently.  Her voice was distant as she continued, pulling herself up one stair at a time.  "Professor Dumbledore will explain everything once Snuffles arrives.  I have not heard the full story myself.  I would advise you to wait for the truth, rather than hearing half of it from me."  They had reached a door that said VISITORS' TEA ROOM AND HOSPITAL SHOP, and as they crossed the threshold McGonagall rounded on him._

"Potter," she said sharply, "it is long past time you put your grudge against Professor Snape to rest, what with recent events.  I am not expecting an apology from either one of you on your past behavior, but I would prefer at least a lack of open hostility.  Especially now, when we have just suffered our first casualties."  He eyed her openly, not bothering to conceal his opposition to the idea, his urge to scream '_What about Cedric?'  He wanted very badly to just stride past her and into the tea room, but was held fast in her steely gaze.  "Believe it or not, Professor Snape is on our side, and he is only a human being.  He blames himself not only for failing to warn the Order of an attack upon our headquarters, but also for what has happened to Lupin and for failing to protect his students."  Her nostrils flared as they faced each other in the wide hallway leading to the tearoom, staring each other down.  "I would not wish such a burden on anybody, Potter, and I expect you to conduct yourself around him properly."_

"I will he if he does," Harry replied angrily, and then he really did march past her and into the tearoom, throwing himself down in a plush chintz armchair.  He didn't admit to himself that he was a little disappointed when she did not follow him in.  He listened to the squeal of the door opening and closing at the end of the corridor, and scowled when a timid young witch approached him to see if he'd like some tea.  She set a cup before him anyway, and he scowled at the cup, as well.  _Snape and Malfoy making heroic sacrifices_.  He settled deeper into the armchair, scratching his nose furiously.  All thoughts of Lupin, even the thought of seeing his godfather were banished from his mind.  _Apologize _to Snape.  Apologize!  And all that crap about Malfoy thinking Snape was trying to kill him.  For Merlin's sake,  Malfoy practically hung onto Snape's sleeve, _the little bitch, his mind added.  As if Malfoy would defend someone against the Death Eaters.  As if he wasn't a Death Eater already.  As if he wasn't some smarmy prat who had declared them all to have picked the "losing side" last time they spoke … that is, before Harry and his friends had hexed Malfoy into oblivion._

Thoughts fizzled as he fought to stay awake.  His body had only momentarily forgotten that it was well past two o'clock in the morning, and fatigue was returning with a vengeance.  His eyelids slid shut and he let them, still focused on his anger, which faded rapidly as he lost consciousness and 

_The bone slid home, filling the thumb so quickly that it looked swollen for a moment.  Amber eyes looked to him and.  _Harry.  Alive.  So glad.  _Broken teeth inside the bloody maw of Lupin's mouth which worked soundlessly with Harry.  Alive.  So glad.  _The rise and fall of breath under the tent of blankets that suddenly looked much too red and then Snape was pushing him out of the way and yanking the blankets off the bed.  They came slowly, sliding off the body underneath as the dried blood pulled at congealing pieces of flesh that were revealed as Snape snapped the sheet in a last flourish.  Harry's hands moved to cover his eyes, twitched uselessly at his side as he swam in the air, drowning under Lupin's golden gaze and the writhing mass of rot that used to be his body, crushed to an unrecognizable shape.  His hand fluttered weakly and snatched at Harry's, and then he was being pulled forward, into the bed and the body and the blood and the decay and Lupin still saying above him:_ Harry.  Alive.  So glad._  And the smell of meat saturated his nose and he choked on it, choking on the meat that filled his mouth _Harry__ and couldn't breathe and tasted so sweet and Alive _could feel Snape's hands on him, cursing and pulling and _So glad __and and _

            Hands were shaking him, pulling him back to awareness.  He slapped at them halfheartedly as he opened his eyes, and jumped when he saw a pair of brilliant green eyes only inches from his own.  It was the witch from downstairs, who had been working with Dumbledore to heal Lupin.  "Sorry, Harry," she said with a smile.  "Didn't mean to startle you, but, er, Snuffles is here and you're wanted downstairs."  He struggled up from the armchair, sinking deep into its depths before he managed to stand, and followed her out and into the corridor.  His heart was still pounding, a leftover from his nightmare, as they reached the room where Lupin was.  The black-haired witch knocked softly, and McGonagall opened the door almost instantly.  "Thank you, Hestia," she said as Harry was admitted back into the room.

            The atmosphere in the room had changed considerably since Harry left.  McGonagall shot him a weary, relieved smile as he passed her, and even Snape looked a little less evil than normal.  He didn't have the chance to observe anything else, however, as his vision was completely obscured without warning; Sirius had thrown himself on Harry, enveloping him in a hug, and it was a minute before Harry was released and allowed to breathe again.  He looked up at his godfather, grinning as Sirius held and shared his expression.  He looked fit to burst with happiness as he put an arm around Harry's shoulders and led him to Lupin's bedside.

            His heart seized as they came close to the huddled figure under the blankets, _white blankets, his mind tried to reassure him.  __No blood.  Nothing but Remus Lupin, looking about as healthy as he ever did, beaming up at him with unbroken, unbloody teeth.  He looked a little unfocused, that was for sure, but he looked up at Harry with a perfectly cheerful, normal expression.  Harry felt relief creeping up on him, and looked back up at Sirius, who seemed to be beyond speech.  _

            "Harry," came a voice from the other side of the bed.  Dumbledore nodded and smiled at Sirius and Harry, his expression serene.  He pulled his wand out, gave it a little flick and two armchairs that bore suspicious resemblance to the entirely too comfortable chairs in the tearoom upstairs appeared.  Harry eyed his a little warily as he sat down.  "I think that it is time for everyone to hear the entire story."  Dumbledore's voice cheered Harry in a way that even seeing Sirius again hadn't.  

Dumbledore would fix everything.  

            Dumbledore gestured toward Snape, beckoning him forward.  "Severus, would you please explain what happened?"  Snape's head snapped up, and his jaw tightened.  Harry watched his black eyes flicker first to Lupin, and then to Sirius before he started to speak.

            "Headmaster, I was unaware that anything _had_ happened," he said.  His eyes strayed to Sirius warily, as if he was expecting an attack from that corner.  "The Dark Lord had kept me isolated for some time, and I was unable to communicate with the Order.  Discovery would have been certain.  It wasn't until I was asked to brew the Wolfsbane Potion that I was aware that anything was wrong.  When I was finally able to leave undetected from my quarters, I went to find Lupin … and found him in the condition he was in when we arrived."  His mouth tightened.  "I was able to follow the screaming."

            Next to Harry, Sirius tensed, and let his breath out in a quiet, explosive string of curses.  Everybody looked at him as he groped for Lupin's hand and held it tight.  Lupin's eyes had fallen shut, but his hand tightened around Sirius' convulsively.  Something landed on the foot of the bed.  It was the tiny witch's hat with the vulture on it that Snape had been carrying around all this time.  He had thrown it, carelessly; as they looked back to him he bared his teeth at Lupin in a humorless smile.  "Dumbledore supplied me with that before I left; an object to carry with me that would transform into a Portkey should I need to escape quickly.  I assume I have your sense of humor to thank for the … choice of object that was selected, Lupin."  Lupin opened his eyes again and regarded the hat with a faint look of amusement.  His amber eyes twinkled. 

            "Actually, I don't believe I had anything to do with it."  His voice sounded even more hoarse than normal.  As if he had screamed his throat raw.  Snape responded with a sneer.  Harry felt pressure on his shoulder, and glanced behind himself to see Sirius rising, his face grim.  Snape's mouth twitched slightly as he approached, and the two stared each other down for a long moment.  Harry recalled that they had stood exactly that way only six weeks earlier, eyeing each other with utter loathing as Dumbledore forced them to shake hands after the end of the Triwizard Tournament.  He couldn't see Sirius' expression from where he sat, but Snape's face showed uncertainty, his lip curling in what seemed an almost automatic manner.  _I know what you're going to say, that look said.  __I know what to expect from you.  I'm a useless spy, I caused the death of three people.  I failed to protect Lupin.  My fault, yes, I know.  It seemed the entire room was holding its breath, waiting for Sirius to speak._

            "Severus," he started, and hesitated.  It sounded like just saying the name was causing him pain.  His next words came in a rush.  "Thank you.  You – thank you for – for …" He gestured helplessly at Lupin, and then extended his hand.  Snape simply stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable, and when he accepted, the handshake was brief and he let go with a vague expression of distaste on his face.

            "In any case," he continued abruptly, as Sirius retreated.  "The Dark Lord knows.  I will not be able to return."  Dumbledore dismissed this with a wave of his hand. 

            "Perhaps that is for the best.  At any length, you were able to save Remus' life."

There was silence for a long moment.  Dumbledore was the first to speak.

            "I'm afraid that we shall need to leave St. Mungo's tonight.  We've been able to keep Mr. Malfoy's presence here quiet, but I'm afraid that we are terribly vulnerable here.  Hestia has promised me that it is safe to move you, and I'd like that to happen as swiftly as possible.  Remus, do you know what I must ask of you?"

            Lupin nodded.  He looked only seconds from unconsciousness, but his gaze was steady as he faced Dumbledore.  "My home is well protected.  Harry –" 

            He was cut off by Sirius, who said, rather aggressively, "Harry has been with those Muggles long enough.  He has to come with us."  Dumbledore merely chuckled.  

            "I agree, he has fulfilled his obligation for the year."  Harry didn't understand what that meant.  Dumbledore's head bobbed up and down as he nodded, a picture of an agreeable old man.  "He will be much better protected with the two of you.  However," and here his voice grew sharper; "Young Mr. Malfoy will be coming with you."

            Disagreement came from all sides as Harry, Sirius and Snape vocalized their displeasure at the very idea.  

"How can we trust him, he could be spying --" 

            "Sir, I believe I've made my feelings clear on this matter, Lupin's home would NOT be an appropriate environment –"

            "I am NOT going to live with that – that –" Harry followed his protest up with a word that would have made even Fred and George blush.  McGonagall gave him a look that said very clearly what she would have done if he had said such a thing at Hogwarts.  Sirius looked a little startled, a vague look of approval on his face.  Dumbledore didn't even react; his next words were addressed to Snape and Sirius. 

            "I have my reasons for sending the boy with Remus.  He will be safer there than anywhere else – safer than at Hogwarts itself.  Given the extreme nature of the harm done to him, I have a very hard time believing that he consented to any sort of spying mission … and he has already been looked over for any sort of Charms or curses."

            "The burn," Snape said tightly.  Harry looked from Dumbledore to Snape and back again as they stared each other down.  Long moments passed.  It seemed to Harry that power radiated off the two men in waves, the emotion and exhaustion they all felt concentrated into that angry, determined glare they shared.  Finally, Snape cursed softly underneath his breath and Disapparated with a loud crack.  Harry looked to Dumbledore.

            "I believe he has gone to fetch Mr. Malfoy," the old man clarified.  Sirius stirred uneasily. 

            "I still don't believe this is a good idea, sir."

            Dumbledore sighed, and folded his hands into his lap.  It was as if he had aged ten years in a single moment, his shoulders slumped and his eyes dark.  "When you see the boy," he said quietly, "you will understand."  Sirius made a noise in his throat and sat back down.  He looked to Harry, and then to Lupin, who seemed to have finally passed out.  His mouth hung open slightly, and Harry was comforted to be reminded, unexpectedly, of the sleeping Professor on the Hogwarts Express, the first time he had met Lupin.  He looked back to Sirius, who glanced up with the strangest look on his face; he had been staring at Lupin with an expression of great fondness, a gaze so tender that it startled Harry.  When he noticed Harry watching him, his face split into a dazzling grin.

            "How about it, Harry?  We're finally going to be a family, like I promised."  No more Dursleys.  No more Privet Drive.  No more Surrey, he supposed; it was hard to imagine a werewolf living in such an, er, civilized area.  Any response he might have had for Sirius, however, vanished in an instant as Snape returned, bearing Malfoy.

            It felt, for a moment, like the world had twisted onto its head.  Behind him, he heard Sirius suck in a breath.  His mind rapidly pawed through memories of Malfoy, and drew up short.  This creature, nearly crouched in the doorway, was not Malfoy.  It couldn't be Malfoy.  Malfoy was immaculate in neat and obviously expensive robes, hair slicked back, with that almost jaunty smirk that seemed permanently affixed to his face.  This wasn't Malfoy.  It just couldn't be.  He looked sick and sweaty, his face multicolored with the last remains of healing bruises marring his pale skin, aristocratic body clad in cheap hospital clothes.  Both arms were wrapped around himself, the sleeve of his right arm pulled up enough to see that his entire hand had been swathed carefully in bandages.  Silver eyes blinked fearfully – _what was he thinking, a Malfoy wasn't fearful_ – into the room as everybody stared at him, transfixed.  Snape's arm tightened around the boy's shoulders, and he steered him carefully into the nearest chair, another one of Dumbledore's creations.  With obvious intent, he turned his back to the assembled witches and wizards and crouched before Malfoy, speaking rapidly in a low tone.  

            The adults, chastened, turned back to planning their next move; Harry tuned them out.  He watched Malfoy's head move slowly up and down, nodding in response to whatever the hell Snape was telling him.

            " – did you make sure all the wards –"

            "Yes, yes, they're all fine.  We'll check them again –"

            Malfoy looked up, unexpectedly, leveling his gaze at Harry in seeming response to something Snape has said, but only closed his eyes with a pained expression on his face, as if to explain that that was simply the end of it.  

            " – send him in a few days with the boy's things –"

            " – already in motion, Dumbledore –"

            Harry swayed.  His stomach hurt, he was dizzy, he was really fucking tired.  He studied the boy that still sat only a few feet away, studied the curve of Malfoy's neck bent down to Snape, considered memories of that same pale nape bowed carefully over parchment, quill scraping quietly.  He tried to telegraph the thought: _I see right through you.  You don't fool me at all, you fucking spoiled berk.  I'm going to be watching you._

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.  He looked behind him to see Sirius' grim face staring down at him.  For a wild moment, he almost wondered if his godfather had somehow heard what he was thinking, but he only grunted and said: "We're about ready to go."  Chairs scraped; everybody was getting to their feet, and Sirius turned away to help Lupin stand.

            "Severus, would you care to go first?" Dumbledore asked, his tone courteous.  He gestured with his wand towards the tiny witch's hat that still lay upon the bed.  "_Portus."  Snape spared one last glance to Malfoy, who stared back at him with his chin lifted.  He walked to the foot of the bed slowly, and then did something very strange.  _

            "It was a different color," he said to Lupin, and his voice was … almost affectionate, Harry realized.  Gentle.  And Lupin only looked back at him with a gaze that seemed to exclude everyone in the room, and gave the tiniest incline of his head.  With that, Snape was gone, deigning only the slightest touch of his fingers to the Portkey.

            "You first, Harry," Sirius said, nudging him forward as Dumbledore produced, miraculously, a second tiny witch's hat topped with a stuffed vulture from his pocket, waving his wand over it to create another Portkey.  Harry looked at the hat and marveled at its absolute silliness at the same time the thought entered his head: _It'll happen again.  I'll touch it and be back in the graveyard and this time he really will kill me.  He was already smelling moss and damp earth when he felt that dreaded pull behind his navel, and his feet left the ground._

            Instead he slammed into soft ground, falling to his knees.  All he could do was stare, stunned; instead of a dark and overgrown graveyard, he was surrounded by sweet smelling plants.  Instead of a fine old house standing on a hillside, a rambling stone farmhouse stood a short distance away, looking as though it had seen better days.  Morning's first light winked at him.  He laughed shakily, and felt relief flood his chest.

            Malfoy appeared next to him with a soft popping sound, and immediately tumbled to the ground, rolling to avoid his bandaged arm with a hiss.  Harry looked to him curiously, watching Malfoy squirm about on the ground until he was flat on his back.  Only then did _the little ferret – his mind insisted on substituting – open his eyes, focusing on something behind Harry.  "What the hell is that?" he demanded, in a far more spirited way that his appearance would suggest he was capable of, _

            Harry turned and found himself staring into a pair of liquid brown eyes exactly level with his own.  His vision swam; whatever it was, it was less than a foot away from his face, and he squinted as his eyes attempted to compensate for the sudden change of depth.  Whatever it was, it was very furry.  And light brown.  Was it Padfoot, suddenly become brown?  Unexpectedly, it mooed and licked his face.

            Harry stumbled backwards at the same moment that Sirius and Lupin popped into view.  "Shoo," Sirius said irritably to the cow – for it was indeed a cow, although it was the smallest and furriest cow Harry had ever seen – which ambled off, mooing as it went.  Lupin chuckled, leaning heavily on Sirius' arm.  They both turned as one to look at Malfoy, who was still lying flat on the ground with the most unpleasant expression on his face.  "Can you stand, boy?"  His tone was the same as when he was addressing the cow.  Malfoy sniffed in response and pushed himself to a slightly shaky standing position.  

            All Harry could think about was sleep.  He barely saw the rooms they passed through, zeroed in on the stairs when Lupin directed him toward the bedroom he'd be sleeping in.  He could hear Sirius and Lupin's voice following him up the stairs, something about another bed, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care.  Malfoy could go sleep with that cow, for all it mattered to him.  He collapsed onto the bed, pulling somewhat dusty quilts up around his face to block out the sun, and was asleep in moments.  

This time, he was not disturbed by dreams.


	4. Casualties of War: The Farmhouse

Author's Note: Hopefully this chapter explains a lot of the loose ends that were left in the last bit. It's getting milder, but there's swearing, mention of character death, rape and torture, as well as a bit of squicky stuff and M/M relationships. R/S, H/D, Hr/R. Extra special worshiping thanks to my betas, who came in especially handy this chapter because I was without Spellcheck and seemed determined to make Draco a wuss. Everybody bow to Manna, Kat and Max, who rock my world. Please read and review!

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Remus awoke early, his limbs stiff and complaining. He dressed silently, ignoring a small twinge of guilt that passed through him as he glanced to Sirius, still sprawled over their bed, utterly asleep. It felt as if they had only nodded off minutes ago, when the sun had barely begun to peek its head through the half-closed window. Sirius had dropped into unconsciousness holding him close, and Remus had been unable to resist the urge to move quietly out of the smothering embrace. The sun had risen high in the sky now, and he guessed the hour was somewhere around ten o'clock. 

He paused as he passed the second bedroom, cocking his ear for any noise inside. Harry had already been unconscious by the time they had gotten Draco sorted out and upstairs. The boy had been wary of sharing a room with Harry, but had reluctantly agreed once Sirius had transfigured a chair into a big, comfortable bed. All was quiet in the little room, but then again, he hadn't expected either of them to wake up so soon. He continued down the staircase, hand resting lightly on the banister, pondering. Dumbledore had briefed Sirius and him on what had happened to Draco in the minutes before they had joined the boys through the Portkey. It was worrying that Death Eaters had penetrated the Forbidden Forest, even more so that children were being forced to join their ranks, but what hit him the hardest were the atrocities done to Draco, the savagery of Pansy's murder. Remus didn't have to search his memories of Draco as a student to find sympathy; his heart went out to the boy. Who knew how Sirius and Harry would behave around him, and these next few days would be critical as he started to heal. Remus shook his head, his thoughts trailing off as he moved into the main level of the Farmhouse. Draco and Harry were safe as long as Remus and Sirius were watching over them, he knew, but he had to question Dumbledore's wisdom in throwing together a house of invalids and old enemies.

Remus took his time wandering from room to room, brushing his fingers lightly over his possessions, reaffirming that this was still, indeed, his space. He had moved into 12 Grimmauld Place with Sirius nearly two weeks before The Capture, as his mind had labeled it, already beginning a process of disassociation. In the six weeks since he had last seen it, he had missed his home more dearly than he had realized. 

The Farmhouse was the first home that Remus had ever owned. It had been his for more than five years. It had only been paid off fully a year past, with the majority of his wages from Hogwarts, but it had been his home from the time he had moved in. Every object in the Farmhouse was his, lovingly collected over his years of wandering. After Lily and James' deaths, he had accepted work as far afield as Hong Kong, and had never stopped moving. He had traveled the world over; his only regular contact was with the Werewolf Registry, as he was legally required to inform them of his movements and whereabouts. It had been beneficial for him as well, in some ways; they had put him in contact with safe places to transform – were-safe houses, he had dubbed them many years ago.

When he had finally stopped running, he had settled here, in the Isle of Eigg, formerly host to a were-safe house that he had been put up in the wilds of Scotland. The island was perfect for an itinerant werewolf, with a population of barely seventy people and a view to be wondered at. The Farmhouse itself looked over the ocean, hedged in by forests, and a little pond off to the side of the house completed the picture. It was Unplottable, had dozens of spells to make it undectable by Muggles, and the wards that surrounded the property were some of the finest and strongest that could be crafted. Remus had worked it over on a different level as well, giving the surrounding area a nice temperate feel to it, bringing the temperature to a more comfortable level year round. The adjusted climate allowed for a riot of flowering plants that had spread all over the unforested areas of his property, bathing the house in fragrance. Remus halted by the kitchen window and pressed his face to the glass, enjoying the feel of the cool surface on his skin. In a little while, he thought, he would go out into the garden and read for a bit. 

He moved back into the living room, rummaging beneath papers and in drawers before coming up with a small sprig of tightly wrapped, dried white plants. He had just lit the ends when he heard a noise behind him. He turned to see Harry standing on the stairs, glasses held in one hand while he rubbed his eyes with the other. Remus' heart lurched. From the moment he had met Harry he had been struck with how incredibly like the James of his memories he was: young, messy and perpetually pushing his hair out of his face, and this was only reinforced as he and Harry simply looked at each other for a long moment. 

Remus shook off the spell, hoping that his face hadn't shown any of his shock. "Good morning, Harry," he said neutrally. "I wasn't expecting anybody to wake up so soon. Did you sleep well?" Harry shrugged. Remus could see him fighting a smile, enjoying his ex-professor's full attention. Harry had always seemed to be a student – no, a boy who blossomed with a bit of extra consideration. Not so much in terms of additional help, but even a few minutes of one-on-one time changed the boy's entire attitude. It wasn't as if he had ever begrudged a few minutes of his time to somebody as engaging as Harry, at any rate.

Harry's eyes were following the burning herbs curiously. "What's that?"

"Sage," Remus replied. He slowly waved the herbs around the room, wafting the smoke into the corners. "It's for purification. I've been away from my home for a very long time."

"It smells nice." Harry followed him into the living room, staring carefully at the piles of books and scattered personal items. He looked for some time at a drawing of a grindylow that hung on the wall, which had been one of Remus' most treasured possessions over the past year. It had been a gift from a Gryffindor boy in Harry's year, a student named Dean Thomas whom Remus remembered quite fondly. The drawing, which was beautifully drawn and had obviously taken some time, had reached him by a small owl just as he was leaving Hogwarts' grounds. The timing of it – he had just been "ousted" by Severus, and the entire school must have known by then that he was a werewolf – had made the drawing especially meaningful to Remus. 

"Professor Lupin," Harry began hesitantly. Remus looked to him, waiting expectantly. He noted with a bit of amusement that a touch of pink had appeared in Harry's cheeks. "When I woke up this morning, Malfoy was in my room." Remus grinned, bringing up his hand to cover it. He'd bet Galleons that Harry would have been complaining Sirius' ears off, if it had been Sirius he had encountered first.

"In your room?" he asked mildly.

"Yes, sir." Harry looked quite flustered. "You see, there was this bed and ..." He sputtered a bit, and trailed off helplessly.

"Was Draco in your bed, Harry, or your room?"

Harry's face flushed an alarming shade of red. "In the room." Remus smiled gently, hoping his amusement didn't show too plainly. It seemed there were indeed vast differences between James and Harry, if only in sense of humor; James would have taken a question like that and run with it.

"There are only two bedrooms at the Farmhouse. If it poses too much of a problem, I'm sure we can work out other sleeping arrangements for the two of you." Harry still looked a tad disturbed about the prospect of sleeping in the same room as a Malfoy, but only nodded, staring curiously at Dean Thomas' drawing of the grindylow before moving on to study the clutter that lined the shelves of the nearest bookcase. Remus laughed softly as Harry's attention was drawn to one item in particular: a small, rather unassuming wooden box that sat at eyelevel. It didn't surprise him that it drew the boy's eye, as it was beautifully crafted, with the phases of the moon delicately shaped from mother of pearl, encircling the round sides, but it was interesting that Harry would notice that box in particular. Remus moved to stand next to Harry, who looked to him curiously. 

"Your mother made me this," he said. Harry's eyes widened slightly, and he looked back to the box.

"What is it?"

"It's a music box," Remus replied. He tapped the lid of the box with one finger twice, and then twice more, and it split open with a sigh as the soft tinkle of music began and the image appeared.

It looked to Harry as if he was watching a small television. Remus, who had not seen a television until he was twenty-five, had always thought of it as a sort of three-dimensional wizard photograph. Charms had been one of his strengths at Hogwarts, but he had never figured out how exactly Lily had made the music box. Any true curiosity to figure out how it worked was of course tampered by the fact that he'd have to take it apart to study it, and he would be loathe to destroy something that had been such a comfort to him in the years after Lily's death.

"Is that me?" Harry asked curiously, leaning forward to study the tiny figures more closely. Remus confirmed with a slight nod of his head; Harry was indeed a part of the peaceful scene that the music box displayed: a summertime nap on the couch with Remus, Sirius, and baby Harry sleeping quietly on Remus' chest. Remus hogged most of the couch; he still had a vague memory of claiming it supposedly to keep Harry comfortable, but mostly to ensure the way that Sirius had curled his body around Remus', his head resting just above Harry's.

"What's the music that's playing?" Harry was absolutely fascinated. Sirius and Lupin, looking young and healthy, that was a big one … no gray in Lupin's hair, and Sirius' hair was short! He grinned at the grimace that Lupin made.

"That," Remus said primly. "Was your mother's idea of a joke. It's Led Zeppelin … on a _music box_." She had laughed hard at his music purist horror at being presented with such a, well, a 'mockery of quality music' was how he had put it at the time. Zeppelin had been his favorite band for many of his Hogwarts years and afterwards, and similar tastes in music had been one of the first things that he and Lily had bonded over. The music box had been her birthday gift to him about a month after Harry's birth, given with a knowing smile. Her choice of song, "Whole Lotta Love," and Sirius' presence within hadn't been lost on him. "Lily just thought it was the height of hilarity. Your mother had a very sick sense of humor, Harry."

A small, private smile formed on Harry's lips, and he reached to touch the music box, lightly stroking the side where the moon vanished into the wood. Remus felt a strange tug in his chest. He knew that Hagrid had made Harry a photo-album full of mementos of Lily and James; he had donated quite a few photographs, in fact, but he had never really realized how little Harry must know of Lily, his own mother. Everything he had ever known of his parents was James this, and James that … Merlin forbid Harry should ever find out what a horrid little bastard James was as a teenager. If truth be told, Remus had always liked Lily, and had gotten along well with her in their early years at Hogwarts, but Sirius … Sirius had hated her. He had loved her like a sister, of course, when she and James stopped trading insults and started going together; Sirius was like that. She had always had a soft spot for Remus, though, and at times he had felt like it was only through her that he was part of the Marauders anymore, in the months before her and James' deaths.

Harry was looking at him quietly, and Remus smiled in response. Harry smiled back, and tilted his head slightly, as if he wanted to ask something, but kept quiet. Remus hesitated, uncertain of what he wanted to say, how much he wanted to explain. Remus had been very close to his own mother, before her death, and he had been very close to Lily. _You should have known her._ But that wasn't exactly what he wanted to tell Harry, and before he could think of what, exactly, Draco had come down the stairs and there was no more time for private talk, at least not between Harry and himself. 

Draco was quieter coming down the stairs then Harry had been, but the hospital stink that had absorbed into his skin had alerted Remus to his presence the moment he had hit the first step. There was something else about the boy, a smell that lay faintly underneath the scent of antiseptic and Healing Charms, a whisper of scorched flesh and dark emotions, a whisper that bore watching.

He turned with a smile, and Draco froze on the step, eyes wide. Remus had heard about The Ferret Incident from Minerva (and what a state she had been in over that!) and Remus couldn't help but compare the boy's pale face with the animal that had caused such an uproar amongst the staff at Hogwarts: sharp features practically sniffing the tension in the air, gray prey animal eyes. How much the boy had changed, from the ruthlessly intelligent student that Remus had known only a year ago. It was hardly surprising, but it startled Remus just the same. How much of that change was from what had happened only days ago, Remus wondered, and how much was because Draco was simply a year older?

Draco's eyes twitched over Remus' shoulder and narrowed. Ah, this was where the fireworks would begin. He had seen them in action, of course, during his tenure at Hogwarts, though fortunately never in such close quarters as a classroom. It was a fairly simple procedure … Draco would say something insulting first, usually some sort of racist remark, and Harry would respond, until it escalated into a fist fight or a duel. They didn't get into trouble for it as often as they should, in Remus' opinion; very few of the professors truly cared, after so long. Minerva and Severus were the only ones who bothered anymore. Remus himself had to admit to turning a blind eye more than once.

However, Draco wasn't saying anything, merely glaring. Harry remained silent as well, obviously waiting for Draco to make the first move. While rather puzzling, that was quite enough, thank you.

"Well," Remus said, moving between the two boys. "Good morning, Draco. I see you've found the clothing that I set out for you." Draco's mouth tightened, and he tugged at his sleeve with his uninjured hand. The sweater was thick and red and Sirius', who had put up no small amount of fuss at the suggestion of donation. The pants were Remus', and fairly hung off the boy, though Remus was not all that much taller; a Fitting Charm would take care of the cut, but Remus felt the inexplicable urge to feed him something. Anything. Just as long as he'd fit into those pants without another Charm. He looked around at the stacks of books that surrounded him, and a small, demented corner of his mind wondered if the boy would eat paper, as it was most certainly the most abundant material in the house, and possibly the only one available.

__

Stop it, he chided himself._ You're going to be mothering them both next. You need to stop that immediately_. He looked to the two boys, who were still quite occupied with glaring balefully at the other, and recalled hearing the complaints of several Hogwarts professors that the Gryffindor/Slytherin classes were the bane of their existence. "Breakfast time," he announced, clapping his hands as if trying to grab the attention of small children. Their eyes snapped over to him, startled, but they followed him into the kitchen docilely enough. He only hoped that there was, in fact, something other than paper to eat.

They were in luck. There was a note in the bottom pantry from Minerva's hand. _I had to remind Albus to send this along, but I thought it might come in handy. _He smiled in relief, looking at the supply that they had been left. Presumably house elves had been sent to deliver the food, but Minerva might have come to supervise. The food in Remus' pantry practically bore her stamp of approval. It was nutritious: apples, oranges, all manner of fruits and breads, but he was willing to bet that she had left them at least a few treats. She had teased him mercilessly about his sweet tooth while they had worked together. He set a few fruits on the counter and after a look through the ice box, a hunk of cheese. The boys looked distastefully at it, but Harry reached willingly for an apple. Draco turned his nose up, of course, but Remus could worry about that later. There were other, more important things to attend to before manners.

"Stay here," he said, and went back into the other room, to the voluminous chest that stood near the stairs, where he kept the majority of his potion and healing ingrediants. The murtlap essence was on the lowest shelf, right behind the Erumpent Fluid and next to the bezoar, in a small stone vessel. Another quick rummage produced a collection of small wooden bowls, and one was quickly filled with enough murtlap to comfortably soak a hand in. He'd have to wait to see how far up the burn extended before offering other treatments or any of the few decent large bowls that he used for cooking. 

He brought the bowl of murtlap essence back to the kitchen. "You're to soak your hand in this once a day for a little while, Draco." He paused, waiting for Draco to ask what it was. The blond boy's eyes had fixed suspiciously onto the small bowl, but he remained silent. "It's murtlap essence, it will ease pain and lessen the severity of your burn, and it might help to ward off any spells that are left inside." Draco's eyes widened slightly. Harry folded his arms and leaned back against the countertop, watching the other boy's trepidation with interest.

"Let me see your hand, Draco," Remus said, carefully keeping any hint of gentleness or pity out of his voice, not wanting to injure Draco's pride to the point where he would refuse treatment simply to be spiteful. Draco's eyes flicked between Remus' face and the bowl of murtlap, and reluctantly stretched out his burned hand. Remus held it gently, and, setting the murtlap down on the table, dug his wand out of his pocket. "It will be more effective if we can get this bandage out of the way," he explained. "_Evanesco_." The wrappings vanished, and Remus sucked in a breath as he saw what was underneath.

It was worse than he'd expected. He had seen a good many magical and non-magical injuries in his time – some of the broken bones he'd woken up with after a full moon had been quite horrific to see – but he'd never seen anything like this. Even under a thick wrapping of bandages, magically kept sanitary, Draco's flesh had blistered and peeled back to reveal raw, oozing sores and large patches of charred, flaking scabs that used to be skin. The peeling layers of dead skin were segmented by pink bits of flesh that ran in ropey sections up his wrist and halfway to his elbow. It almost looked as if the skin had been torn away to reveal muscle that winked slyly up at him. Dimly he heard Harry make some sort of noise in the back of his throat, but his eyes remained on Draco's hand. The smell of Dark Magic was overpowering. 

Harry watched, feeling a little sick despite himself. Was that what burned skin looked like? It wasn't what he had imagined, in any case. He hadn't thought it would be so many colors, that it would cease to look like anything human. Malfoy kept his head lowered, but his cheeks practically glowed. Harry could see the trembling in his arm as Malfoy tried to keep himself from yanking his hand back, or trying to move his fingers. God, but that was disgusting. He looked to Lupin, and then did a double-take as Lupin did something incredibly bizarre: bent his face over that charred piece of Slytherin flesh and _sniffed._ He was _smelling_ it! Harry couldn't help himself. "Eugh," he said, his nose scrunching up in disgust. Malfoy's shoulders hunched together.

Remus ignored Harry, instead looking up at Draco. The boy's eyes wavered and then shut tightly, shame burning in his face. "Who cast the spell, Draco?"

Draco's eyes snapped open, shock written across his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but simply left it there. That was alright; Remus knew what he was thinking. Knew the power of recognition. _How could you know? _ It drove through Draco's defenses effortlessly. It had driven through Remus' as well, once upon a time, when his closest friends in all the world had sat him down and carefully explained to him that it was ok.

It took longer for Draco to come to him than Remus had immediately thought it would, but then, while Draco had been exceptional in Remus' class, he had never formed any sort of bond with the boy, the way he had done with Harry, Dean, and a few others. Remus was a patient man, however, and knew from the look on Draco's face that he _would_ come to Remus; he wouldn't be able to help himself. Of course, one could chalk it up to the boy's undoubtedly Slytherin personality; he had to ally himself with _someone_ in this miserable situation he had ended up in, but Remus didn't think that was the entire story. The look in Draco's eyes – _You know. You know my secrets. And you understand _– told him that it was more than that. 

After breakfast, Remus had gone out to the garden, as he had wanted to, found his favorite spot by the pond to sit, and simply waited. Draco had to come on his own, and eventually, he did. He appeared suddenly, startling Remus, sat down gingerly beside him, and began to speak, without preamble or even a greeting. He told his entire tale, from setting out that evening with his father for Hogsmeade, to waking up in the Forbidden Forest with Pansy Parkinson's unrecognizable corpse for company. It was the first time he spoken of it; Remus knew most of the story because Dumbledore had been forced to use his Pensieve on the unconscious boy when Firenze had first brought him to the steps of Hogwarts, in order to find out what the hell had happened to his student, and even Severus had only gotten bits and pieces at St. Mungo's. _He has to trust someone_, Remus thought, and became aware of a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that he hadn't encountered for a good many years: hot, blinding rage. He wanted to punish those men for what they had done, and punish them he would. He only hoped that he had enough time. 

It was evening by the time Remus and Sirius had the time to discuss what had happened; the day had been full of activity. They had had to break up several fights between the boys; the lists of Where You Do Not Go and What You Do Not Touch were lengthy, directed at Sirius as well as Harry and Draco, and tended to follow this pattern:

Sirius: "Why shouldn't we touch this?" CRASH

Draco: "He's touching me; I think that shouldn't be allowed."

Harry: "I did _not_ touch you! I'm halfway across the room from you!"

Draco had started talking again after he and Remus had finished their conversation, and Harry and Sirius were dismayed to discover that he remained as sharp-tongued and obnoxious as ever. Their first day as refugees from the wizarding world went about as well as Remus hoped it would, and he decided that the fact that there was no actual physical violence (although much was threatened) meant that it had been a good day. 

They didn't get the chance to talk until the household had trooped up to bed. Sirius had whined, as expected, for the chance to stay up and play more games with Harry, and Draco had whined, as expected, at having to share a bedroom with Harry, but in the end the boys went to bed as told, and Sirius came dutifully up to bed behind Remus, hoping for affection but getting a serious conversation instead. 

He didn't tell Sirius the entire story; Draco hadn't explicitly sworn him to silence, but he had a hunch that that was the case. Sirius knew, essentially, what had happened anyway, so there wasn't any reason to tell him everything. All he spoke of were the details, and Sirius listened with his head bowed, sitting with his legs crossed on Remus' bed.

"He doesn't know who cast the spells on him, but it was rather complicated. I've never even heard of any spells like this, but I'll ask Dumbledore to send us books that might help.

"Before Pansy was – killed, while they were being held on the ground, Draco's head was pinned down. That's how the bruising on his face came about." Remus demonstrated, splaying his fingers so that the ball of his hand rested on his forehead and his fingers were divided up between his cheekbone and lips. "A wand was held inches from one eye, then the other, and it was also forced inside his mouth. He told me that the same words were spoken in each place, but in a language he didn't understand, and he can't remember if anything happened – lights, sparks, anything like that – while the spell was being cast. I got the impression that he was in a lot of pain at that point. It was after that, that they killed Pansy."

Sirius' face was grim. "It sounds like the girl's death was part of the spell, if it was cast right before they killed her." He shook his head. "That kid could be a walking Skrewt, and we'd never know it. Merlin only knows how much Dark Magic has been stuffed inside him."

"He was looked over at hospital, checked for everything imaginable. There were a few tracking spells, common in all-wizarding families, and signs that he'd been under both Imperius and Cruciatus, but no evidence of curses, Charms, or anything that Dumbledore, Hestia or Severus knew of." Sirius flopped over onto his side, squirming closer to lay his head in Remus' lap. Remus twisted his fingers through Sirius' thick hair, scratching absentmindedly. Sirius' eyes narrowed into lazy, happy slits, enjoying a head rub as much as Padfoot would. 

"I still don't trust this," he said, reaching up to stroke Remus' cheek. Remus leaned into the caress, breathing in Sirius' musky scent gratefully. Even this odd distance between them, a distance that he didn't even know if Sirius noticed, wasn't enough dispel the comfort that having his old friend near him automatically brought. There was simply too much history between them. Even after twelve years of believing that Sirius had given up their best friends to the enemy, even after years of suspicion between them after they graduated Hogwarts, the moment he had embraced Sirius in the Shrieking Shack, he had felt as though he was home. He considered telling Sirius who was going to be coming to visit in a few weeks, but as Sirius drew him down to stretch out on the bed and pulled him close, he decided that that news could certainly wait for a more appropriate time. 

*************************************

It was well over a week before Harry and Malfoy spoke to each other beyond strained requests to pass the salt or butter, and it would have been even longer if it hadn't been for Malfoy's nightmare. Their days followed a rather predictable pattern. Their waking hours were staggered: first Lupin, then Harry, with Sirius and Malfoy trading off to be the last one up. It was likely as not that Lupin would nap through the day, but nevertheless, he seemed determined to rise with the sun. After breakfast – usually some assortment of bread, butter, cheese and apples – they'd pair off. Lupin and Malfoy would settle themselves outside, reading in silence for hours at a time or talking quietly. Sirius and Harry's activities varied; they spent days pawing through Lupin's dusty Farmhouse and the treasures scattered within. Most of it, Sirius explained, had been kept by Lupin's mother during their school days. "Remus was such a old lady. He'd collect so many useless things throughout the term that he'd barely be able to pack his trunk by the end of it, and every time he went home he'd dump it off with his mother and start all over."

There were boxes of old trinkets, beads and baubles and small magical toys, reams of paper with notes scribbled in class, books decorated in the cramped handwriting of four young boys, less sophisticated versions of the Marauder's Map (including one sheet of paper that simply insulted you, as the finished product had done to Snape during Harry's third year). In one box there was a long roll of parchment that had apparently been a rambling, collaborative story authored mainly by Messr. Prongs and Messr. Moony that told the grand adventures of someone named Mr. Pebbles, featuring appearances by Wonder Woman and six cowboys, in separate episodes. The mood was slightly spoiled on the second day of treasure hunting by the discovery of an entire carton of Wormtail memorabilia, but they made up for it later by burning everything it contained, piece by piece.

Harry's trunk and possessions joined them three days into his stay, and Harry and Sirius moved outside to stage endless rounds of two-man Quidditch, which mainly consisted of lobbing balls back and forth to each other. Sirius rode Lupin's broomstick, a frayed and tatty old thing that nevertheless managed to hold its own.

Harry and Malfoy avoided each other, for the most part; meals were lax, books at the table were acceptable, and Harry found plenty to do during the daytime with Sirius. The music box had made him suspicious, but not quite sensitive enough yet to see the looks exchanged between Sirius and Lupin, the sudden "private" talks. He knew that Sirius was jealous of Lupin's time spent elsewhere, but contented himself with knowing the fact that his own company seemed to keep Sirius happy.

Bedtime was awkward but passable. Harry, by habit a night owl, easily kept awake hours after Malfoy had fallen into deep slumber. They'd glare at one another for a few minutes, if it happened that they went to bed around the same time, and then one or the other would pointedly turn his back and go to sleep, or at least pretend to. It was as close as they would come to willingly speaking to each other all day. In truth, Harry found Malfoy's barbed silence a trifle unsettling. For five years, Malfoy had gone out of his way to torment, tease and tattle on Harry and his friends, and to be cooped up in a rambling farmhouse day after day with your worst enemy (after Voldemort, of course, he added as an afterthought), who does nothing more than stare at walls and monopolize the attention of one of your favorite teachers – well, it was flat out disappointing, to be honest.

Normally, Malfoy slept like the dead. He moved a lot in his sleep; Harry could watch as Malfoy moved through stages of unconsciousness by the way his angular body slowly uncurled itself from the protective ball he had fallen asleep in, the way he twisted the blankets around himself until he was nearly incapable of any further movement. It made Harry laugh, although he wouldn't have been able to say why. Maybe it was because in sleep, Malfoy's sharp features softened, he snored a little and pressed a fist up against his face like a little child. Maybe it was because Harry had never thought that such a ferret-faced, snobby, gloating, nasty little snot was capable of looking sweet in his sleep.

That night Harry had gone to bed long after Malfoy; Sirius had kept him up for hours playing Exploding Snap, and if it wasn't for Lupin, who fallen asleep on the couch shortly after dinner and who had woken up only to tell Harry to go to sleep and toddle off to bed himself, he'd probably still be down there, hearing tales of Master Padfoot and the Great Prongs. 

As it was, he dismissed the idea of sleep when he got upstairs and got to work on his Transfiguration essay, propping his textbooks up in front of him as he settled cross-legged onto his bed. He was finally beginning to be a little suspicious of the blanket of silence that settled onto the second story of the Farmhouse at night, but after a long and rowdy day that had included the persuasion of Lupin into a lengthy Quidditch game, he found the quiet to be a relief. Normally, in his bedroom on Privet Drive, he'd be able to hear Dudley snoring or, god forbid, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon doing it in their room. Now there was only the scratching of his quill and the occasional lowing of those weird cow-things that Lupin kept, and he was able to throw himself fully into his essay – at least until Malfoy started making noises.

Harry was so engrossed in his homework that he barely heard the first moan, but the second made him look up from his work suspiciously. Not even Malfoy was perverted enough to have a wank while Harry was still awake – right? No, it didn't seem so; both hands were in plain view, one arm flung up over his head, clenching his pillow, and his face was pinched tight. Another groan escaped from Malfoy's drawn-back lips as Harry watched, and this time he could tell that it was not a noise of arousal. 

For a moment, Harry was fascinated despite himself. He watched Malfoy twist with wide, nearly unseeing eyes, wondering what he could be dreaming about that was that terrible. Other than McGonagall's short explanation, nobody had told him anything about Pansy's death or what had happened that night, and in truth he had nearly forgotten about it. He hadn't been very curious; his hatred of Malfoy had overshadowed his hurt confusion over being ignored, and he had grown too used to thinking of the enemy as rather faceless. He hated Voldemort, or at least he believed he did, and Cedric's death – how shockingly sudden it was, those dead eyes staring up at him – had been horrible and still haunted him, but no matter how many Defense Against the Dark Arts classes he had taken, he had never come face to face with the depravity of true Dark Arts; death was still as simple and quick as 'Avada Kedavra.'

Harry uncurled his body slowly, laying his parchment and quill down against the bedspread as he moved across the gap that separated their beds, one hand outstretched, pausing over the pale boy's shoulder. "Malfoy," he said. "Malfoy, wake up. Malfoy! Wake up!" _Oh man, I don't want to touch him … _ He shook Malfoy roughly, marveling at how bony he was. Malfoy's eyes flew open immediately, almost as if he had been expecting the contact, and he made a sterling attempt to scramble away from Harry, impeded by the coils of blanket that he had wrapped around himself during the night. 

"Potter!" he said in astonishment. They stared at each other for a long moment, unmoving, before Malfoy began to methodically untangle himself. Harry leaned back, uncertain.

"There's nobody else here, Malfoy, of course it's me."

Malfoy quit picking at his sheets long enough to shoot a nasty glare at Harry, who noticed with some distress that his hands were shaking, and badly. He didn't want to comfort Malfoy, didn't want to talk to him, didn't even want to think of _Malfoy_ needing to talk after a nightmare. He allowed himself a cringe and settled onto the edge of his own bed. "Are you … ok, Malfoy?" he asked awkwardly. 

Malfoy glanced up and quickly away. "Keep your hands off me, Potter," he muttered thickly, finally pulling free from his blankets and pushing his back against the wall. He scrubbed roughly at his eyes with his fists.

"I wasn't groping you," Harry said, irritated. He shoved a hand through his hair, shifting uncomfortably. "You were uh, having a bad dream."

"Don't be stupid." Malfoy lay back down, curling his body in on itself as he yanked the blanket close to him. 

"Stupid? What do you mean, stupid? I saw you twitching … I saw …" Harry waved his hands in a helpless gesture. He wanted to punch Malfoy's lights out, he wanted to find out what the hell Malfoy was on about. For the first time all week, Harry began to wonder what had happened in the Forbidden Forest, what had happened to Pansy Parkinson.

"Saw what." Malfoy's tone was utterly flat. 

Harry shrugged. "I don't know," he said quietly. Brutalized, McGonagall had said. Nearly killed. He hadn't believed her at the time: _if that's his story._

"Was I _crying_, Potter? Was I calling out for _Mummy_?" Malfoy's voice was just as soft, his tone dangerous. Harry remembered the bruises that had decorated Malfoy's face that night in the hospital, bruises so dark that not even medi-wizards had been able to heal them completely. The cuts that had shown on the pale strip of belly flesh exposed when he stretched.

"I just thought that, you know, maybe … you might want to be woken up or something. You didn't look very good." Looked like you were being tortured, actually. Woke up like you were expecting it, like you were expecting some kind of visitor in your sleep.

Malfoy laughed. "I'm so touched by your concern."

Harry shrugged again. "And I'm so scarred by your malice." He'd never seen Malfoy so … _brittle._ Not after losing at Quidditch, not after being attacked by Buckbeak in their third year.

Malfoy turned to face him, then, his eyes glinting. "Fuck you, Potter." Harry glared right back.

"Do you want to talk about it or not? Because if you don't, just shut up. I need to sleep too, you know." Malfoy sat up, moving so that his face was only inches from Harry's. He could feel Malfoy's breath on his cheeks, and pulled away. Nearly killed, Merlin. Pansy Parkinson, dead like Cedric, only brutalized, Harry didn't know what that meant. The warm breath on his face made him want to throw up.

"Have a little heart to heart, you mean? How touching, Gryffindor sympathy." Harry rolled his eyes. They'd been trading that shit back and forth for nearly five years now, and not even the turn of his stomach – brutalized, what did that _mean?_ -- could change House rivalries. 

"How scathing. Slytherin sarcasm." They sat in silence for a few moments, staring each other down, and Harry was caught by the urge to lean forward, back into that warm breath. He almost felt like it would tell him something, answer the questions that he didn't have the courage to ask. "Well? What was your nightmare about?" Malfoy stood abruptly and reached for the long jacket that Lupin had loaned him, yanking it on and moving toward the door, his usual grace stripped away. 

"Was it about Pansy?" Harry asked quietly. 

Malfoy sucked in a harsh breath, and stopped, pausing with one hand on the door. He turned slowly, his eyes blazing. 

"What does it matter to you, Potter?" His jaw tightened, his chin lifted, and the familiar, dreaded lip curl appeared. Snobbery dripped from every pore, and obscurely, Harry felt a twinge of relief. "She was only a _Slytherin._" 

Malfoy slammed the bedroom door behind him, knocking a picture off the wall. The people scattered out of the frame, muttering angrily as they sought refuge from the broken glass. A second slam followed the first by moments as Malfoy left the house and headed outside. Harry sighed and rolled over, staring up at the ceiling. He was too tired to even be bothered to clean up Malfoy's mess. He noted without really thinking the irritated lowing of the cows outside as they complained of Malfoy's presence in their garden, and thought of bruises on pale skin.

***********************

Harry slept late the next day, and drowsed happily for a while, enjoying the feel of cool sheets on his bare feet, the warmth of the sun on his face. He wasn't often a late riser, but he had lain awake for hours after Malfoy had left, unable to sleep or concentrate on his homework. He had fallen asleep before Malfoy had returned, though he had tried his best, and when he awoke Malfoy was already gone. Irritation and disappointment flickered through him. He fumbled for his glasses on the table that stood between the two beds, and swung his legs to the floor. 

Putting on his glasses, he squinted at Malfoy's bed. The Slytherin's covers were always messy; he never made his bed, so it was impossible to tell whether or not he had come back during the night. Harry wondered if a Malfoy would deign to spend the night in a field of cow pies. He leaned forward, towards the window, squinting against the sunlight that poured in from outside. He saw Sirius standing next to the pond, Lupin sitting on the ground and ... there was Malfoy, sitting next to Lupin, his blonde hair glinting in the sun. He didn't look like he was in his pajamas, so it was a good bet that he had at least come back to the room to change his clothing.

Faintly, he could hear Sirius' voice, muffled by the windowpane and the distance. Lupin sat shaking his head; Harry thought he could see Lupin's lips moving, but then he stood up and stalked away. Sirius followed, leaving Malfoy sitting alone on the grass, and Harry saw his chance. He grabbed his coat, shoved his feet into his trainers, and headed downstairs. He hit the bottom step of the stairs just as Sirius and Lupin exploded into the living room, Sirius trailing after Lupin in a fury. As Harry paused, his hand still on the banister, Sirius reached forward and grabbed Lupin by the wrist, spinning him around. They glared at each other for a long moment, and then Sirius reached a cautious hand up towards Lupin's face. Lupin frowned and batted the hand away as if it were an annoying fly. "Remus," Sirius said reproachfully. Lupin ducked his head, and that was when he caught sight of Harry. His eyebrows lifted, and he coughed softly, cocking his head to the side. Sirius turned a moment later, following Lupin's gaze, and his eyes widened when he saw Harry. "Morning, Harry," was all he said, and Harry took that as his cue to squeeze by the two of them and go out into the garden. 

Malfoy didn't look up at Harry as he settled down next to the pale boy, keeping a respectful distance. They stared out at the pond for long moments, watching the cow-things amble across the field on the other side. Malfoy had settled down near a giant bush of lavender, and at some point in the morning had accumulated a large pile of fragrant purple stalks in front of him. Harry watched Malfoy's hands, stained purple, as they picked one up and began to mercilessly shred it. It was as unsettling to see those formerly impeccable, lily-white fingers stained as it was to see his hair hanging down in his face, longer than Harry had thought it would be. It was past his chin but not quite to his shoulders, and a large hank fell in front of his ear, unnoticed as Malfoy destroyed the surrounding vegetation. They sat in silence, and it nearly felt companionable, even considering who he was sitting next to. Harry lifted his face up to the sky, enjoying the warm sunlight, and had nearly forgotten why he had come out in the first place when Malfoy began to speak.

"Good detective work there last night, Potter. I bet you're more talented with Divination than you'd let on. Have you been taking private lessons from Trelawney? I bet you have, don't be coy. You can tell me. Listen, I'll tell you some of my secrets, you wanted to know what I dreamt about." His drawl was even thicker than usual, nearly to the point of parody; Harry could remember Ron sounding fairly similar on more than one occasion after an encounter with Malfoy's gang. He laughed, seemingly to himself, and rolled his eyes as if to say how ridiculous he found the entire situation; talking to _Harry Potter, _for Merlin's sake.

"I'll tell you all sorts of things … if you think you can handle it. I'm a Death Eater now, though you can't see the Mark anymore. Here's another secret: Pansy wasn't. She never took the Mark, which I hope won't disappoint Granger too much; she always loved a reason to hate Pansy. She died with her arm unmarked – that's something, don't you think, Potter? Don't you think it will be enough to redeem her evil Slytherin soul?" Malfoy's drawl had faded to almost nothing as he said this, and it almost seemed as if he was honestly asking. He lowered his head and flung a lavender strand out into the pond. They watched it float serenely across the surface of the water, and Harry kept quiet, not knowing what to say, and wished he had a rock to throw, to upset the calm water, the softness of the plant against the surface. Knowing that if he spoke, it would break whatever spell compelled Malfoy to explain. When Malfoy spoke again, his voice was low, and angry. "No one deserved that, no matter what your filthy little friends might think … you look as though you don't know what I'm talking about. Didn't my cousin fill you in?" 

Malfoy smirked in the general direction of the pond, still steadfastly refusing to look at Harry. He didn't wait for a response, but continued on as if Harry had reacted, his drawl firmly back in place. "Oh, that's another secret. Black is my cousin. Does that make you and me cousins, I wonder? Not by blood, of course, but … I wonder why nobody's told you why I'm here. Maybe they thought it would be too shocking for your tender ears, to find out how Pansy died. Well, I'll tell you; you're far too Gryffindor for my tastes, you need to be toughened up." He paused. It was difficult to gauge whether he was savoring the tension -- waiting until Harry was slavering, as if he would, to reveal his secrets -- or simply gathering his thoughts. Harry stared at the ground between his shoes. Brutalized. Pansy was brutalized. 

"She _burned_, Potter. Oh yes. She wouldn't take the Mark. They beat us within an inch of our lives, and after they – defiled her, they held us to the ground and _burned her alive_. Didn't you wonder how my arm was burnt? Maybe it gets you excited, hearing about all this ... violence. Maybe I underestimated you. I doubt it. But here, I'll tell you anyway. I _did_ dream of Pansy last night, just as you thought. She was alive, and we were walking in the gardens at my -- at Malfoy Manor. There was a party, you see, and I didn't want to go ... she came and found me where I was hiding, and tried to take me back. 'Don't be a baby, Draco. Your mother's looking for us, Draco. We need to go.' She took my wrist --" he held up his arm, swathed in bandages, his eyes tracking the movement of a bird across the sky. " -- and her hand left ... her hand was covered in blood. When I looked up, the gardens were all in ruin. Rotting away. And Pansy. Pansy was naked, and as she held her hands out to me ..." Malfoy closed his eyes, tilting his face up to the sky. He raked two fingers carelessly across his cheek, leaving a smear of faint purple marring his pale skin. "She bled, from a hundred different places ... all over her body, little wounds opening, like this. She bled fire."

"Brutalized." The word came out of Harry before he could stop it. Malfoy cocked his head.

"What?"

"McGonagall said ... that she was brutalized." He said the words to his feet. He didn't want to know anymore, didn't want to hear what he knew Malfoy was going to say next.

Malfoy clucked his tongue, and grinned slyly. "Brutalized?" he asked. "Is that what they're calling rape nowadays? What _won't_ those Mudbloods think of next?"

Harry's eyes closed on their own. Hermione had been fond of referring to Pansy Parkinson as some sort of variety of troll. He didn't know whether he felt bad because he had laughed, knowing what a bitch she was to Hermione, or whether it was simple horror. He didn't want to think about it. Cedric's face, frozen in shock, smeared with dirt from the grave, rose into his mind and he hurriedly shoved it away. _If just Malfoy's arm looks like that then what does she look like? _He couldn't help picturing it: Pansy, laid out on scorched earth, limbs fused together from the fire, her body afforded a last bit of modesty in death because it was no longer recognizable as human. It was all Harry could do to keep from retching.

He combed his fingers through the grass at his feet, searching for a stone. He kept his eyes shut, feeling his way along the ground by touch, trying to push away all thought. The sun on his face, the wet dirt underneath the grass, the sounds of the animals and, faintly, Sirius and Lupin shouting at each other; that was all he could feel, all he knew. And then, something warm underneath his fingertips. He opened his eyes.

Malfoy recoiled as if he had been stung, yanking his bare foot away, and Harry looked at his fingertips, and then up into Malfoy's face. Their eyes met. Slowly, Malfoy reached down with his uninjured hand and rubbed at the place where Harry had touched, as if Harry had punched him smartly on the toes instead of brushed his hand against them, but his eyes ... they were unsteady as they looked at Harry, and his lip attempted to curl but ended up caught between his teeth instead. It wasn't the same expression that he had seen on Malfoy's face a week earlier, when Remus had taken that burnt hand between both of his and somehow stripped away all secrets, but it was close. Harry's breath caught. 

It lasted only a moment. Malfoy's lips moved, ever so slightly, as if he was going to speak, and then his eyes were flickering up and over Harry's shoulder, and narrowing, the vulnerability that had been so visible only a moment before gone as if it had never been, and he was on his feet and moving away before Harry could even think to react. Harry's head whipped around in bewilderment, but when he saw Sirius moving towards him, a rather disgruntled expression on his face, he understood. 

"What was that about?" Sirius asked as he hunkered down beside Harry. 

Harry shrugged, and reached for the lavender shreddings that lay abandoned in the grass. He turned the largest between his fingers, staring fixedly at it. "Is it all true?" He could feel the tension ebbing out from between his shoulder blades, his confusion melting away, at least a little. Sirius was someone who he could trust -- who he could relate to. 

Sirius grunted. "Depends on what he told you."

"He said you guys are cousins."

Sirius' face darkened, and shrugged. "On his mother's side, yeah."

"How come you never told me?"

"Well, it's not very important, is it? I didn't even think they'd still count me as family. I was disowned a long time ago."

"Oh." Harry was quiet for a few minutes. He sorted the lavender pieces into four groups and then scattered them again. "What about the rest of it?"

Sirius was silent, considering. They watched Malfoy's progress across the field opposite the pond as he headed towards the edge of the Farmhouse's protective wards. "Yeah," Sirius said at last. "It was bad enough that he wouldn't need to lie about it. They put his memories into a Pensieve – that's a sort of device – "

"I know what it is. I found one in Dumbledore's office last year."

Sirius raised his eyebrows. "Is that so? Well, anyway, Dumbledore told Remus and me what they saw. The girl broke free when they were trying to put the Dark Mark on her, and ran to him." He jerked a thumb at Malfoy, who had reached the edge of Remus' property and was now apparently attempting to coax one of those miniature cows closer. Sirius continued, "They held onto each other through all of it, even when they burned her."

"That's what happened to his hand?" Sirius nodded. Across the pond, Malfoy let out a squeal as the cow licked his outstretched hand.

"What nobody's been able to figure out yet is why this happened. Voldemort and his little stoolies never did anything like this before, in the war. What was terrifying back then was how many people were getting killed, not … not this."

They sat in silence for a long time. Sirius combed the blades of grass in front of him, picking and discarding several pieces before carefully fitting one between his thumbs, lifting it to his mouth and blowing. Harry laughed as Malfoy's head whipped up at the resulting honk, and his expression of complete bewilderment only made Harry laugh harder. Their eyes met across the pond, and they regarded each other for a moment. Malfoy's mouth twisted into a wry line, and he turned his back on Harry with a flick of his head that brought a prick of mingled irritation and amusement from Harry.

"Well, anyway," Sirius said. Harry looked back to his godfather. "I did come out here to tell you something important. I'm going on a mission for Dumbledore – going undercover as a loveable stray again. He wants me to check out a few places – old Death Eater haunts, mostly – to see if I can find any activity."

"Oh." Harry looked down at the ground, trying to hide his disappointment. What was he supposed to do if Sirius was gone? "How long are you going to be away?"

"Only a week or so, hopefully. I'll be back before the full moon, I've promised that much." Sirius rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner, smiling. "I'll need you to look after old worry-wart in there, ok? Make sure he eats and bathes and all that. And keep an eye on that Malfoy kid – make sure he doesn't run off with the good silver or anything. Not that Remus has any good silver. If he did I'd make him sell it and buy himself some decent robes." Sirius grinned at him. Harry forced a smile.

"When are you leaving?"

"Tonight," Sirius replied. He stretched his arms above his head, scrunching his face up. "Cover of night and all that stuff."

"Oh."

Sirius frowned. "You'll be ok without me here, won't you? I'm sorry to leave you like this ... with that kid you hate and all that. I'll be back sooner than you know it, I promise." Harry shrugged.

"I'll be fine." Sirius nodded, looking unconvinced. 

"Well ... I have to go apologize to Remus. I gave him a few minutes to calm down. He's just a tad upset about this, as you might have heard. We'll talk some more later, ok?" Harry nodded. Sirius reached out and clapped him on the shoulder, and then picked himself up to trot back to the house. He watched Lupin's blurry figure move close to the kitchen window, and open the door right as Sirius reached it. This time, when Sirius put a hand up to touch Lupin's face, it was not rejected.

"Dingwall Gins."

Harry jumped, and whirled around. He hadn't even noticed Malfoy circle back around the pond, but there he was, standing less than two feet away from Harry. Malfoy smiled winningly down at him, an expression that Harry found to be more than a little eerie. "What did you say?" he stammered. 

Malfoy cocked his head and rolled his eyes, and all the while that smile remained on his face. Harry found himself getting a little nervous. "Dingwall Gins." He seated himself gracefully next to Harry, closer than he had been earlier. "That's what those things are called." He gestured with his bandaged hand. "Remus told me about them. They breathe fire."

"That's .... interesting," Harry replied cautiously. "I was wondering what they were. Why do they need to breathe fire?" The winning smile turned into a smirk.

"All the better to roast inquisitive minds like yourself."

"Why haven't you been roasted yourself then?" Harry shot back. Malfoy held up his arm and waggled his fingers to the best of his ability, which wasn't very much, and grinned. Harry felt his neck warming beneath his collar and felt color flush his cheeks. "Fine. But why haven't the cows gotten you, then?"

"Ah. That's another story entirely. You see, I'm simply not a very curious person. I have very few questions in life."   
"Liar."

"Show-off."

"Prat."

Malfoy stuck his tongue out.

"Beat you," Harry said. 

"Never. A Malfoy always has an insult ready."

"What, like Scarhead?"

"One of my finest," Malfoy replied indignantly. They sat in silence. 

"Dingwall Gins, huh?" Harry asked. Malfoy nodded sagely.

"You know, I had wondered why they reminded me of a certain junior member of the Weasley herd." Harry looked at him. Malfoy pursed his lips and waved a hand across the pond at the Gins. "Well, look at them. It's that 'spitfire redhead' thing."

"Not to mention all the mooing noises," Harry said, and then felt rather shocked with himself. Malfoy looked shocked as well, and then he burst out laughing.

"My my, Scarhead, maybe you're not as nice as I thought."

"Speak for yourself, Ferret." Malfoy's eyes widened dramatically.

"You said the 'F' word! That's not fair!" 

"Ferret. Ferret ferret ferret."

Malfoy pushed him over. Harry fell onto his side, laughing breathlessly. He grinned up at Malfoy, and Malfoy, bizarrely enough, grinned back. 

"Harry! Draco!"

They turned as one; Remus was standing in the open doorway, gesturing for them to come inside. "Nobody's had anything to eat yet," he called again. "Come in now." They looked back to each other.

"Scarhead."

Harry laughed again, and pushed himself to his feet. Malfoy stared up at him with a bemused expression on his face. They studied each other silently, appraising, and then Harry stuck out his hand. "Come on, Ferret." Malfoy simply looked at it for a moment, and then took his hand, allowing Harry to help him up. He wiped his hand on his jeans, eyeing Harry carefully. 

In what seemed a small gesture of truce, they crossed the threshold together. 


	5. Casualties of War: A Visitor

Casualties of War: The Visitor 

Author: hans bekhart 

Rating: Overall R, PG for this chapter 

Summary: When the Second War begins, Remus Lupin and Draco Malfoy are its first casualties. Doggy dirt baths, snarky Potion Masters, and a game of chess. Thanks so much to my betas, Max, Kat and Manna. 

------------------------------------ 

There were certain personality traits that Sirius Black and Padfoot had always shared. A love of mud, for example; neither had ever been known to pass up a good roll or fight in goopy mud, the fouler the better, and neither minded being dirty for days afterwards. Even before the birth of Padfoot, Sirius had loved the slow confinement of drying mud over as much of his body as possible. Becoming utterly filthy – within reason, of course (he'd hardly enjoyed a twelve year lapse in bathing), was simply one of the things that Sirius could enjoy in both forms. 

Nevertheless, neither Sirius nor Padfoot were enjoying themselves at the moment. He spent most of his time transformed, for safety's sake, but a dog was still quite capable of misery. He didn't exactly resent Dumbledore for sending him on this little spying mission, but it was becoming quite difficult to keep a stiff upper lip, especially when giving his reports. He could be lying in bed with Remus, giving his friend some long overdue pampering; he could be trading stories with Harry, being the godfather he was _supposed_ to be. For Merlin's sake, he could even be keeping an eye on that damned Malfoy kid, making sure he didn't die or make off with anything valuable. 

Instead he was in Blackpool. He remembered the area, vaguely; if this mission had been worth anything so far, it was restoring a lot of the memories that he had thought were lost to the Dementors. He had been here before. Some fifteen years ago, it had been a Death Eater gathering place, and that was why he was here. 

It wasn't entirely safe for him to be snooping about as Padfoot – who knew what that lying, filthy, traitorous bastard had squealed to his master – but it was a damn sight safer than, say, Moody or Arthur wandering around the countryside. A big black dog was not inherently suspicious, but a cloaked wizard with a mismatched set of peepers and a tendency to shout unexpectedly would have drawn the attention of far more than just Muggle law enforcement. As Padfoot, he could also sniff around, see if anybody had been using the various areas he'd been looking over for the past two weeks, and he'd be able to sense things that, as a human, could easily be missed. 

So far all he had found was a whole lot of animal shite. And spiders. A few rabbits, here and there, that he'd been sorely tempted to chase around a bit. But no Death Eaters. No Dark Magic. No damn Voldemort sticking his head out from behind a pile of rat turds and giving a hearty "Here I am! Come get me!" At the moment, he was in a barn, a _barn_ of all places, watching dust motes in the air as he nosed through a pile of hay, knowing full well that no human had been within miles of this place for months. 

Padfoot flopped over onto the ground, letting out a doggy sigh. He rolled a bit, figuring that a dust bath would do him almost as much good as a regular one, and wondered what Harry was doing. He supposed Remus or Dumbledore would have mentioned it if Harry had finally gotten fed up and killed that Malfoy kid. Next time he talked to Remus, he'd have to ask him to put Harry on for a bit. Teach him some hexes that would have made James proud – just in case. 

He and Remus had been using an old two-way mirror set that he and James had used to communicate during detentions. Dumbledore, surprisingly, had given the pair of mirrors back to them; apparently he had ended up with quite a few of James and Lily's things after – well, after they were murdered, including James' invisibility cloak, which had been passed on to Harry. It wasn't the best method of communication, but at least he _could_ communicate, and not only with Dumbledore, whose disembodied head would simply pop out of thin air when he came to hear Sirius' report. 

Merlin, but he missed Remus. 

He hadn't wanted to leave his Moony. He really hadn't. He had nearly died when they had received the news, that his family's house and – that Remus was – 

He shook his head violently, ashamed that even now, even after Remus had come back to him, he couldn't even think the words. 

Harry had been the only reason he hadn't wished that he had been at Grimmauld Place that night. It was the sheerest of chance that he hadn't been. He had snuck out as Padfoot a few hours before the attack after a particularly vitriolic fight between Remus and himself. He had been sick of being held captive in that miserable house, especially when his friend seemed to resent him so utterly. For weeks, hiding in the Forbidden Forest by Hogsmeade and sneaking close only to visit Hagrid for meals, he had lived in agony, knowing that the last thing Remus had known was what a coward he really was. 

_Of course_ it was hard for them to trust one another. Remus' defence of him the summer before notwithstanding, just being around one another felt like navigating around a dragon's nest, and once sex had been brought into the equation – Merlin, look out! 

It was odd, how it happened. When Remus had embraced him in the Shrieking Shack, it was as if all those years had been stripped away. To be forgiven – even if he had yet to forgive himself – it was beyond his ability to understand. And to be touched! It was the first time he had been touched in nearly thirteen years. The two weeks he had spent lying low at Remus' after Voldemort's return, it had seemed as if they could not stop touching each other. Holding each other until the shock of the boy Diggoy's death, the anger at the danger that Harry had been put through, and the horror of the rebirth of Voldemort had passed. Soft touches on arms, legs, casually leaning against each other. Once Sirius had stroked Remus' hair for hours, running his fingers through the shorter hairs at the base of Remus' skull, marvelling at the strength in Remus' neck and shoulders. Those two weeks had existed outside of time. 

Moving into the Blacks' ancestral home had been the beginning of the end, of course. That house was poison, and a part of Sirius was glad that it was gone. They had cleaned Sirius' old room first; it was probably the dirtiest, having been in disuse the longest, but at least there weren't quite so many lethal objects hidden around. Anything of value had been stolen by Regulus or that foul house elf – whom, Sirius had been quite shocked to discover, had somehow managed to outlive his mother – long ago. What was left, hidden under decades of dust, had nearly broken Sirius' heart. Quidditch banners, mementos of events long forgotten, all of the things that a sixteen year old boy would treasure. They had slept in the yard that night, and clung to each other as tightly as they could, living on each other's breath. 

Padfoot let out another heavy sigh, stirring his feet aimlessly in the dust. He climbed up into the hayloft and looked out through the open doors. He dropped heavily onto his belly, his head resting on his paws. His eyelids drooped. Merlin, his paws ached. The sunlight that warmed his great furry body made him sleepy. It was hours yet before Remus would contact him, and he wasn't expecting to hear from Dumbledore for another few days. Just a quick kip, he thought. Just a quick kip. He hoped that he'd be able to go home soon, and be with Harry, and Remus, be there to protect them. He'd make sure that nothing ever happened to Remus again. With that thought, he dropped off to a restless sleep. 

------------------------------------ 

Harry Potter was far more comfortable hating Draco than feeling sorry for him, and Draco was more than happy to oblige. He'd never liked pity very much, in any case, and although he could count breaking through Potter's stone heart and getting some compassion, thank you very much, as a personal victory, he was far more inclined to be a brat than a sympathy case. 

Draco made it his mission to find something new to tease Harry about every single day. The day after they had their little breakthrough by the pond, he had taught all of the paintings in Lupin's house to sing a charming little ditty that he had composed, entitled "Potty Wee Potter," first in unison and then in rounds. It wasn't his most original work, he'd be the first one to admit, but the fury on Potter's face had almost seemed like relief. Living with your enemy was one thing, but getting along with him was an entirely different matter. 

The day after that, he had picked on Potter's flying ability – not that there was much to tease about, but it was nearly a guarantee to push Potter's buttons. There was always something new ... usually something silly that Potter would say, and the Gryffindor was more clumsy and more dense than just about anybody Draco had ever met – well, not more dense than Weasley, but it was near enough for Ministry work. 

Draco tucked his left fist against his cheek and studied Potter in his sleep. Potter sprawled – his hands and feet stuck out from under the blankets at odd angles, and his mouth gaped open. His hair stuck up in a truly appalling way, and Draco knew that Potter wouldn't even try to brush it when he awoke. Absolutely disgusting. 

Draco was annoyed. The trouble with baiting Potter, he decided, was that nowadays there were simply too many taboo subjects. Parents had not been brought up once during the three weeks that they had been in Lupin's care. Or Voldemort. Or Diggory. It was impossible for either of them to do magic – Draco didn't have a wand anymore and Potter had no idea that a few of the various wards around the Farmhouse made it impossible to detect who was doing magic inside and what sort of magic was being performed, and so believed that the Restriction on Underage Wizardry still applied to them. Malfoy Manor had similar defences, which was why Draco knew differently, although they were mainly restrained to different areas on the sprawling grounds of his ancestral home, making them more difficult for the Ministry to detect. 

Nevertheless, Draco was more than comfortable being the antagonist ... he had come to like it, actually. Reading and talking with Lupin was grand, but there were few things quite like a knock-down, drag-out fight with Potter. Perfect marks in Potions, maybe. Spending a day with Fath – 

He shook his head, frowning. Would it kill Potter to comb his hair once in a while? 

He shifted onto his back, resting his burned hand on the pillow above his head. Being awake this early was an absolute crime, Draco decided. He wasn't normally a late sleeper, but he was accustomed to having a house elf or Zabini, during the school term, come and wake him up. Left unattended, he'd sleep until noon and be quite happy about it. A crash from downstairs had awakened him some time ago, and for a few minutes he wondered if perhaps Lupin had injured himself, but eventually he could hear Lupin bustling around in the kitchen, and didn't care to get up and investigate the noise any further, in case something was broken and Lupin wanted help cleaning it up. 

He couldn't fall back to sleep, however. He stared at the ceiling for a while, listening to Lupin move around downstairs. He listened to Potter snuffle in his sleep. He wondered if he himself snored, and how one went about finding such a thing out. He flexed the fingers of his burned hand, or at least, he tried without much success. Eventually his mind turned, as it was prone to doing, to devising new things to taunt Potter about. 

He turned back onto his side to regard Potter again. Perfect Potter. Perfectly irritating Potter, perhaps. Maybe he could make up another song. Hagrid. Hagrid was always a good target – Merlin, Draco hated that man. 

Draco rolled out of bed. He contemplated giving Potter a good poke in the face (spot on the scar, perhaps. Take that, Potter) but after a moment of internal debate, left his nemesis alone. Draco might not have been blessed with very much self-control, but he was easily distracted. And right now, he wanted a shower more than he wanted to fight with Harry Potter. 

He padded softly down the hallway. Nearly all the pictures on the wall were still asleep ... another sign that Draco should not be up this bloody early. For a moment, he thought he heard voices drifting up from downstairs; he stood at the doorway to the bathroom, head cocked, but blessed hot water was calling. He shut the door behind him with a smile, avoiding his own eye in the mirror as he stepped forward to turn the water on. 

He pressed one heel to the side of his foot, peeling off first one sock and then the other while he waited for the water to heat. His shirt and pyjama bottoms followed, and, naked, he finally looked to the mirror. Lupin was half-Muggle, and his house was full of magical odds and ends and strange Muggle implements that Draco had never seen before. It was certainly odd to have a mirror that didn't advise you on your appearance, but Draco was grateful. 

Of course, he looked much better than he had when he first arrived at Lupin's home, he thought critically, tilting his head to the side. After three weeks, the bruising that had decorated his face, torso and legs had disappeared, and the only worthwhile thing Black had done before disappearing off on his grand spy adventure was to heal the lingering wounds that had remained on his back. Whatever spell his – well, whatever spell had been cast on him didn't seem to have any obvious physical effect; he was constantly exhausted, but that was likely as not to simply be an aftereffect of all that had happened ... or, he thought with a smirk, a sign of the pronounced suffering that he had been forced to endure in this hovel. 

Draco was seldom honest, but even he was willing to admit that he liked Lupin quite a bit. Always had, even when the man had taught at Hogwarts ... he had dressed like his family's old house elf, but he had treated the Slytherins, even Draco, just like everyone else. That wasn't something that many teachers did. Besides that, he was a better conversationalist than any Gryffindor Draco had ever met, and he understood about keeping secrets. Draco had a fair idea that Lupin understood a lot more than he let on, but you'd never catch him prying. 

Draco frowned, and pushed his fists into his eyes and rubbed hard. The water was hot already, what was he doing standing around looking at himself with no clothes on? He turned away from the mirror, flipping it one last smirk out of habit, and stepped into the hot spray of water. 

The first week in Lupin's home, he had cried in the shower every single day. It felt as though he could never make the water hot enough, as if there wasn't enough soap in the world to make him feel like himself again. He wanted to rub his skin raw, but he hadn't. Even then, even after everything, he wasn't able to punish himself, even in the smallest way. He was a Malfoy, after all. Malfoys didn't do things like scour their skin off. He had cried, knowing that he was no longer protected by his parents, his friends, his name. He had cried, knowing that he was not strong enough to live through this. He had cried until strangely, he no longer felt the need to. It was as if every tear had been soaked up inside his stomach, and he had climbed out of the bath one day and been able to look Lupin in the eye. 

He had never cried for Pansy, though, and this knowledge, his selfishness, left a scar more deep than any inflicted by the Death Eaters. 

He rarely thought about that night. For all of his bravado and clowning, Draco was a very young boy, and although he had known for quite some time the things his father did and to whom, he had always enjoyed protection from anything physically harmful, whether the threat came from inside his family or out. He had never been beaten or abused; his father had hit him across the face once and only once when Draco was twelve, and the memory of that had been nearly unparalleled in Draco's mind for its shame ... for the disappointment that he had seen in his father's eyes. Lucius probably wouldn't even remember the incident, but it still caused an uncomfortable squirm in Draco's heart whenever he thought of it. 

Draco suspected that a lot of the events of that night had been blocked from his memory. It had begun to happen even before it was over; his brain had simply shut down. He had the idea that his memories might have been further tampered with by Professor Snape or Dumbledore while he was in St. Mungos. His body and his professors had already made an obvious effort to keep the full event from him, so Draco felt that he shouldn't need to bother to think about it. He thought about Pansy instead. Crabbe and Goyle, Millicent and Theodore. He wondered if Crabbe's father had told him anything that had happened to his housemates, whether Goyle had realized that Pansy hadn't returned his summer homework to him yet, spell checked and proofread. The Parkinsons hadn't been at the Forbidden Forest that night; neither were Death Eaters. Did they know what had been done to their eldest daughter? 

He hoped that Dumbledore would have at least sent Professor Snape to contact them, tell them what had happened, instead of going himself. 

Draco shut the tap off slowly. He stood still for a long moment, bringing his right hand up to his face instead of reaching for his towel to dry off. _It was **growing**_, he thought, frowning at his hand. Burns weren't supposed to grow. When he had woken up at St. Mungo's, the burn stopped about halfway up his forearm. Now it was nearly to his elbow. 

Professor Lupin knew about it; Draco watched his face every day as Lupin vanished the bandages and studied how much further the damage had crept. He glanced towards the mirror as he climbed out of the tub, reaching for the towel that was still faintly damp from his shower last night. _Savages_, he thought. _I'm the only one here who has any idea of proper hygiene._ He dried himself off quickly, impatient to be out of the steam that filled the cramped bathroom, combing through his hair quickly with his fingers. What did Potter do with that hairbrush? _Bloody savage_, he thought again. He glanced up at his reflection, as if it had done something without his permission, and was startled to find a small, private smile playing across his lips. He puckered his mouth, but it refused to go away. He and his reflection glared at each other for a long moment, facing each other down. Draco blinked first. He shook his head and turned away, stepping into his clothing without hurry. Another glance into the mirror confirmed that the bizarre expression was gone, and his hair looked decent enough ... at least until he got back to their – no, not _their_ bedroom, the room that he shared _unwillingly_ with Potter, and gave Scarhead a hard poke on the mark that made him famous, to demand to know where Potty had stashed the hairbrush. 

Draco frowned as he stepped out of the bathroom. There were voices coming from downstairs. _Lupin hadn't said anything about visitors._ He didn't think it was Lupin on that mirror with Black; he definitely heard _two_ voices, and he was almost positive that he recognized the other. His stomach flip-flopped in excitement, and as he skidded down the hallway to the foot of the stairs and two pairs of eyes turned in his direction, not even Malfoy breeding could keep a huge grin from breaking out on his face. 

------------------------------------ 

Harry was not and never had been a morning person. Of course he had always gotten up as early as the Dursleys needed him to, but he had always preferred staying up late and a bit of lounging in the morning. But when he opened his eyes and saw that Malfoy was out of bed, he thought he might as well get it over with and find out where that prat had gone to. 

It was always a bad sign, when the Slytherin was awake before him; it usually meant some sort of planned prank, one that was more involved than simple insults or a good laugh when Harry made some sort of clumsy mistake. Living with Draco Malfoy, Harry had been dismayed to discover, was not actually all that bad. Of course there were fights – Malfoy never lost an opportunity to tease, and could get Harry's hackles up as easily as he'd always been able to – but the weird thing was that their fights had taken on a rather – ugh – _friendly_ edge. Harry was not observant enough to notice that Malfoy had vamped up his Slytherin Prat persona to an almost laughable degree in the past two weeks, keeping any sort of sympathy or understanding far away from their encounters, but he had noticed that the blond boy was actually respecting a few of his boundaries, which had convinced Harry that either the world was about to end, or that there was quite a bit more to Malfoy than he had ever imagined. 

Part of that was that Malfoy was actually ... funny. He needed to be constantly entertained, and would prattle on about nearly anything until you begged him to please, _please_ shut up, which he would accept surprisingly well. Harry guessed that his Housemates had gotten fed up with babbling years ago, and that "shut it" was a phrase that Malfoy was simply quite used to hearing. He never mentioned his father anymore, however, and that was something even Harry could notice. It was easy to ignore, however; when Malfoy wasn't blatantly provoking Harry, he was telling him that he _absolutely_ had to see what the Gins could do, or badgering Harry into a flying competition that _absolutely_ had to be started, _right now_. They explored the surrounding forests on their brooms, flying high above the trees down to the coast, which lay at the bottom of a steep cliff on the other end of the forest. Out of the Farmhouse's protective environmental bubble, the air was chill and when Malfoy had stretched his arms out and lifted his face up to the sky, Harry had felt ... content. It wasn't like being with Ron, or Hermione. Harry thought it was like being with a combination of Dudley, Dean, and Colin Creevy. A spoiled brat who was constantly remarking on Harry's fame and yet at times, a surprisingly quiet, comfortable presence. Harry was quite confused. 

He swung his legs out of bed, fumbling for his glasses on the table between their beds. He might as well get it over with. He wouldn't have admitted it, but he was sort of looking forward to whatever Malfoy had planned for him. He shrugged on a jumper and a pair of trousers, patting at his hair to see what sort of state it was in this morning. Didn't feel too bad, though he doubted he'd be able to get a comb through it, even if he could find wherever Malfoy had hidden the only hairbrush. 

He stepped carefully out into the hall, looking both ways before shutting the door behind him. There didn't seem to be any obvious traps, but for a wizard who didn't have access to magic, Malfoy could be fairly inventive – it was best to be cautious. Harry grinned as he tiptoed down the hallway. He'd had a few ideas of his own lately to get Malfoy back, pranks that would make his father proud. He had gotten to the head of the stairwell when a noise from below made him hesitate, frowning, one hand on the banister. A rather ... oily noise. An oily voice, actually. An oily voice that had just said "You're in check, Lupin." 

Harry took the stairs slowly, as reluctant to see the owner of that voice as Draco had been eager barely an hour earlier, and just as sure who that voice belonged to. Black eyes met green eyes as Harry stepped into the living room, hatred boiling in his chest. 

"Good morning, Potter," said Snape. 

"Good morning, Harry," Remus said cautiously. Harry looked toward him. As he had come down the stairs, Snape had captured his full attention. Now, he looked around the room and saw Lupin and Malfoy staring at him as well. They were gathered around the end of Remus' desk, now devoid of the stacks of books that usually cluttered its surface, a chess board set up between Snape and Remus, their pieces grumbling about the distraction at such a crucial point in the game. Malfoy had dragged over one of Lupin's high backed armchairs and was sitting quietly next to Snape. As Harry looked over at him, Malfoy gifted him with a brilliant grin – a _real_ grin. Harry's stomach clenched. He'd never seen Malfoy smile like that before. 

Snape's voice broke through his thoughts. "We're thrilled that you finally decided to grace us with your presence, Potter." He swore softly as Lupin moved out of check and promptly bagged his queen. Lupin turned to Harry, smiling. 

"Come, have a seat, Harry. Would you like to play the next round?" 

Harry's eyes followed Malfoy as he leaned close to Snape, speaking quietly as he gestured at the chess board, that smile still on his face. "Er ..." Harry said. "No thanks, Profe – Remus. I think I'll – go flying, or something." 

"All right," Remus replied, studying Harry's face for a long moment. "Come back if you change your mind. I'll be making lunch in a bit." Harry nodded, and backed towards the door. He wasn't even out of the house before Lupin had turned back to his chess game, he noted. He stomped towards the shed where his Firebolt was. 

Remus looked back towards Severus, his eyebrows raised. "I suppose it was too much to hope for a lack of open hostilities," he said mildly. Severus only 'hmm'ed in response, tapping his long fingers on the table before ordering his pieces forward. His eyes flicked over to Draco; the boy was frowning, twisted around in his seat as he stared in the direction of Harry's retreat. He looked back to Remus as his pieces closed around Remus' king, a slight quirk to his mouth. 

"Checkmate," Severus said softly, but he held Remus' eyes with a very serious gaze, questioning. Remus gave a slight shrug as Draco turned back around, his lower lip jutting out in what Remus supposed was a thoughtful expression. 

"Excellent game, Severus," Remus said, smiling. He stood up, his eyes on his deposed king, lying in pieces on the board. "I'll make some tea, shall I?" He rose carefully, bracing himself on the edge of the table. He felt Severus' eyes on him as he walked to the kitchen, scrutinizing Remus as thoroughly as he had Draco, moments ago, leaving the two to themselves. 

Snape turned to Draco as soon as Remus had left the room, putting aside his suspicions. "Let's see it, then," he said briskly. Draco extended with arm without hesitation. Snape tapped the bandages above Draco's wrist with his wand, and the wrappings vanished. Draco flinched; it was much worse. New, shiny skin had started to grow on his fingertips, but his wrist and arm remained a mass of discoloured muscles, harsh scarring disfiguring his knuckles and palm. What used to be his fingers had begun to fuse together in the webbing between them, where the bandages had not kept them separate. The burn now reached nearly to his elbow, where the skin looked like it had been freshly burned: the black, flaking sores had not yet begun to peel away their dead layers yet. Snape's breath caught, but his expression remained stony. "You've been soaking this in murtlap once a day?" Draco nodded. "Does it cause any ... discomfort?" 

Draco shrugged. "If I'm careless, sir. Or if ... if Potter jars it." He looked up at his professor and smiled. Snape said nothing, but returned just a hint of a smile, his attention still on Draco's arm. He turned it over and back, studying Draco's palm and the inside of his forearm closely. 

"And have you been keeping Potter in his place?" he asked, running his wand over the surface of Draco's skin, frowning. Lupin had swore up and down in his reports that the brand, if that was what it was, simply oozed with the stench of Dark Magic, but Snape could see no sign of it. His eyes flicked up to Draco's face; the boy was prattling on, listing the offenses he'd committed against the Potter boy, and wondered if he was looking in the wrong place. The spell had been cast around the boy's face, after all. He nodded in the appropriate places as he turned this idea over, conjuring bandages around Draco's arm again, and came to the conclusion that he was unwilling to put his favourite student through the necessary examination around the same time that Draco ran out of words. 

The boy sat still for a long moment, searching Snape's face anxiously. Snape waited patiently, knowing that the question would come. Draco had been a bizarrely curious child; neither Lucius nor Narcissa had ever shown that much willingness to ask, to define the world around them, and although he had been shamelessly spoiled, Draco's questions were often a bit too bold for social niceties, and had as a matter of course been tampered down over the years. Few of his classmates would ever believe it, but when he wasn't being an insufferable brat, Draco had excellent manners. Snape knew though, that this was a question that the boy needed to ask. 

"Who spoke to Pansy's parents?" Draco burst out at last. Snape raised an eyebrow. That wasn't what he'd expected; he had assumed as a matter of course that Draco would ask about his parents. 

"I did, of course. It was my duty, as your head of House," he answered slowly. Draco's features relaxed, almost imperceptibly, but his anxious look didn't go away. He stared steadily at Snape, grey eyes fixed upon Snape's own, clearly waiting to hear more. Snape blinked. "Well. They wanted to see ... her body, which was impossible, of course," he continued slowly. "They asked about the circumstances of their daughter's death. They asked of you, but I was not at liberty to discuss your whereabouts, merely to tell them that you were ... safe." 

Draco nodded, his eyes shifting down and to the side. Snape held himself in tight restraint, keeping his arms still at his side rather than allowing them to circle around the boy's thin shoulders. Instead, he asked lightly, "And how has life in the werewolf's den been treating you?" Draco smiled, his discomfort easily banished. 

"Potter's stolen the hairbrush, but Professor Lupin is brilliant," he said easily. "We talk for hours, he knows all sorts of things." Snape raised an eyebrow, slightly shocked. 

"I wouldn't get too attached." 

There came a cough from the kitchen. Lupin stood in the doorway, carrying a tea tray, a highly amused smile on his face. Draco smiled back, to Snape's further shock. "I'm sorry to hear you say that, Severus," he said mildly as he set the tray down on the table, nudging the chess board aside. "Although it does make me quite curious as to what you have in store for me." 

Snape grunted, reaching down at his feet and opening his satchel with a snap. "Your potion, for one." He withdrew the shrunken goblet and with a wave of his wand, restored it to its former size. Lupin eyed it distastefully. "And a few other ... treats, if you take it like a tame werewolf." 

Draco took that as his cue. "I think I'll go see where Potter's run off to," he said as he stood. 

"Alright," Lupin said. "I'll be making lunch soon, I'll call you in when it's ready." Draco nodded and made his exit. The two adults regarded each other in silence, and after a long moment, Remus sat down in Draco's recently vacated chair. 

"He's certainly happy to see you," he said. "He speaks of you constantly." 

Snape shifted in his chair. "I'm ... glad to see him doing so well, under your care." 

Remus fixed the smoking goblet between them with a steely glare. He picked it up and swallowed its contents in two long swallows, pulling a face as he set it down. "My ulterior motive for making tea," he explained as he popped a sugar cube in his mouth after throughly rinsing it with a gulp of tea. 

"I've brought you three doses more," Snape answered dryly. Lupin's mouth twisted. 

"Oh goody," he said, and then held up a hand as Snape opened his mouth to speak further. "I hope you wouldn't mind taking our tea outside. I've been loathe to stay inside recently, after my ... captivity. I have the feeling that this is going to be a serious conversation, and I'd like to receive whatever bad news you have to give in the sunshine." 

Snape stood, fingering his wand within his sleeve. A serious conversation indeed, but all he said was, "However you prefer, Lupin."


	6. Casualties of War: Orangutan

Casualties of War: Orang-utan 

Author: hans bekhart 

Rating: Overall R, PG13 for this chapter. 

Summary: When the Second War begins, Remus Lupin and Draco Malfoy are its first casualties. Unfortunate napping spots, talkative Draco, and fire breathing cows. Kisses and cookies to my betas Max, Kat, lildove and frogslayr. 

* * *

Harry watched Malfoy approach with a dry mouth and an iron weight in his stomach. The other boy walked slowly towards him, his face lifted, already smiling in greeting. Harry didn't trust that smile. It bore no resemblance to the one that Malfoy had been wearing inside; this was much more of a cat-got-the-mouse sort of smile, the type he used to sport at Hogwarts, right before he was going to say something particularly awful. Excitement had briefly flared inside of him when he had first heard the kitchen door swing open, but it had died abruptly when the other boy had come into view. Harry gripped his broomstick tighter, steeling himself. 

Malfoy's eyes gleamed as he strolled up to Harry, still sitting on the ground with his broom across his lap, a polishing rag in one hand. He was practically _strutting_ as he reached Harry, and Harry felt himself pull back involuntarily. He had been waiting for Malfoy to come after him, as strange as that had been to realize, but now that Malfoy had appeared, looking for all the world as though they were back at Hogwarts, still mortal enemies, he found that he wanted nothing to do with the pale, pointy boy. 

Malfoy stopped only inches away, looking down his nose at Harry. "Running away," he crooned softly. "Like a little _baby_." 

Harry glared at him over the top of his glasses, digging in his pocket for the tiny shears that he had retrieved from the broom shed. He trimmed the twigs on his broom viciously. "You're one to talk, aren't you? I saw you in there, sitting at Snape's feet, practically licking his – " 

Malfoy cut him off abruptly, his smirk brittle. "Jealous that nobody's paying attention to you, Potter? It's terrible when no one cares about you, isn't it?" 

"You would know," Harry returned. Malfoy scoffed, but his eyes faltered, just a little bit. 

"Oh _yes_, I would, wouldn't I? I've certainly been watching you long enough to know how it goes. Soon I'll be fainting all over the place, demanding attention," he drawled. " 'Oh no, nobody loves me but the entire world! Oh sob, cry, oh my scar hurts. I have a funny feeling in my little toe!' " 

"You're already demanding," Harry snarled, pushing to his feet. "You're also in my way." Malfoy quickly stepped in front of him, crowding close. 

"Oh Potter," he sighed rapturously, grinning. "You know that you _love_ it." 

It had never been Harry that had to be held back during a fight with Malfoy; Ron usually took care of that, struggling against Harry and Hermione at the slightest bit of filth that slipped out of the Slytherin's mouth. He hadn't been the one saying that Malfoy 'wasn't worth it,' either. He would trade insults until it came to blows or until a teacher intervened, but when Malfoy reached a hand up to stroke his cheek, something gave a violent wrench in Harry's chest, a wrench that demanded he leave _now_. He shoved roughly past Malfoy, using his broom handle to push the other boy out of his way, almost running to get enough room to take off. 

He turned back towards Malfoy as he mounted his broom, shoving his glasses angrily back up his nose. "You know what, Malfoy?" Harry said, and then frowned. He looked at Malfoy, and then at the ground, and then up to the sky. Malfoy stared at him, his lips thin. 

"_What_?" he demanded. Harry scowled at him, but his mind remained empty of insults. His fingers tightened around the broomstick convulsively. They stared each other down for a long moment, and then Malfoy folded his arms over his chest, his smirk firmly back on his face. 

"That's what I thought." 

Fury hit Harry in the stomach with the force of a bullet. Then he was speaking, blurting out the words before his brain had time to process them. "Why are you so happy that Snape's here anyway?" he snarled. "It's not like he's your dad. Your dad doesn't even give a shit about you anyway." 

The colour left Malfoy's face as quickly as if it had been slapped away. "You don't know anything about my dad," he said, his voice nearly a whisper. 

"I know him well enough to know that he left you to die," Harry said, and then he was in the air, flying away from the look on Malfoy's face, and whatever words Malfoy might have shouted after him were lost in the wind.

* * *

"You look terrible," Severus said as he settled into his chair, scowling as it rocked in the grass underneath him. Remus laughed as he conjured a chair for himself, startled. 

"As brutally honest as ever, I see," he said, smiling at Severus, who curled a lip in response. "I wonder sometimes, Severus, if Draco stole all of his lovely facial expressions from you." 

"You're trying to change the subject." 

Remus sighed. "Yes, I suppose I am. You're quite quick to notice it." 

Severus smiled just a little at that, turning the mug of tea between his fingers. "You forget that I've spent nearly my entire life around Albus Dumbledore." His eyes drifted outward, to where one of Remus' young charges sat on his broom, his expression foul, kicking petulantly at the air. Draco was nowhere to be seen. "How has it been?" he asked quietly. Remus' eyebrows lifted. They watched Harry in silence as he made lazy loops in the air, still kicking. It was obvious that the boys had had some sort of argument between the time Draco had left the house and when he and Severus had followed. Idly, he wondered where Draco had wandered off to. 

"They're not quite as fierce as some of our colleagues seem to think," he responded, knowing full well that it wasn't the boys that Severus was asking about. 

"You're allowing the conversation to drift, Lupin." Remus gave an evil look, which Severus took in stride. 

"It hasn't been all that bad," Remus said after a pause, casting his eyes to the side. He'd been listing symptoms for most of his life. It made him no more self-conscious than being nude before and after each transformation. "Nausea, sometimes. Vomiting at night. I'm exhausted, constantly, but I suppose that's only to be expected. Muscle pain, stiffness. I have difficulty breathing, and I suppose that that's what's worried me the most." 

"Turn to face me." 

Remus complied, and Severus pulled his wand out of his sleeve, holding it inches from Remus' chest, his brow furrowing. Remus sat patiently under Severus' scrutiny, casting an eye around the sky to see where Draco had gone. He looked to Severus, and stifled a smile at the look of concentration on the other man's face. 

"And what is so amusing, Lupin?" Severus asked, without glancing up. Remus could almost hear Severus taking notes in his own brain, silently listing the things his wand was telling him that had not been included in Remus' list of symptoms. Loss of strength and dexterity. Vomiting more than just at night. The creak of Remus' bones, the careful way that he moved. The fluid in his lungs that kept him coughing for hours. No one would ever be able to accuse Severus of being unobservant, or unskilled at what he did. 

"You reminded me of Poppy," Remus replied eventually. Severus sniffed and pulled away, resuming his usual stiff posture. 

"I'm sure that you know the worst of it." 

Remus smiled. "Oh, be positive for once in your life, Severus. There's always that silver lining, after all." 

Severus glared at him, irritation written plainly on his face. "Are you expecting a diagnosis or to have your fortune told, Lupin? Or are you as incapable of taking life seriously as your ... _friend_?" Remus sighed. 

"No. No, I'm not. I expect you to be honest with me. And I am taking this very seriously. But – if I don't stay positive, I'm afraid that it might ..." He trailed off, coughing violently. As the coughing died, he managed to grin weakly. "Well." 

Severus regarded him silently. 

"I'm sure I won't have any surprises for you. You're right to be worried about your lungs. They took the heaviest damage during the ... transformation. But I suspect that it's also simple werewolf biology at work." 

Remus nodded, sipping his tea, amused: for once, Severus had managed to say 'werewolf' without making it sound like a foul word. "I suspected as much. How bad is it?" 

"I wouldn't be able to tell you that without cutting you open and examining your lungs in a proper environment, and I'm afraid your _hovel_ simply won't measure up to my standards. You'll have to make do with a guess." He paused, sucking in a breath. His tea lay untouched between his hands. "But it is bad." 

Remus sighed heavily, the air catching like fish hooks in his chest. His fingers shook slightly as he lifted the mug of tea to his lips. "I know. You don't have to say it, if it makes this any easier for you." Severus considered him for a long moment, then turned away and took a long drink from his mug. They sat in silence. Remus' eyes followed Harry as he slowly drifted to the ground on the other side of the pond, disappearing from view behind the long grass. 

"Have you told Black?" 

Remus flinched. "No." 

A pause. "I see." 

Remus shook his head. "I can't." 

Severus stared at him, his eyes heavily lidded, and when he spoke, his voice made Remus shiver. "We are not honest men, you and I. But Black, as thick as he is, will find out, whether you tell him or not. Did you bring sugar out?" 

"Mm? Oh, yes." Remus reached down, scooping the sugar off of the tray that was laying on the ground between their chairs at the same time that Severus reached for it himself. Their fingers brushed, and Remus jerked his hand back as if stung. He looked down, to the bowl of sugar between his fingers, and then back up at Severus, who was regarding him with an amused quirk to his lips. 

"Are you contagious, Lupin?" he asked. Remus handed him the bowl wordlessly, and when Severus laid his fingers on top of Remus', Remus didn't pull away. 

"Why not? 

Remus blinked. "Excuse me?" 

Severus pulled away, bringing his other hand up to grasp the sugar bowl, dropping two lumps into his tea as he settled back. "Why can't you tell Black?" 

Remus shifted in his chair, running his tongue across his upper lip. Somehow, he felt as though a bit of control had slipped out from under him, stolen quietly away by the slight smirk on Severus' mouth. "I think sometimes that Sirius still believes that I am thirteen years old ... so helpless that I need my shoelaces tied for me. I can't do this to him. I can't tell him." 

Severus watched him silently, his face expressionless. Silence lay heavily between them. "I've brought the Draught of Peace, to help you sleep," he said finally. "Dittany for your stomach. Comfrey for your lungs ... brew a tea of it, with a teaspoon of witch hazel. Everything's in my case. I brought the books that you asked for, although I don't know what use you think you'll be able to put them to. We've found nothing of the curse that was put on Draco." 

Remus looked up to the sky, breathing in deeply before answering. "Actually, I was hoping to research protection spells. I have an idea that we'll need them, and if ..." His throat closed, and he found himself unable to finish. He shut his eyes and brought a hand up to his throat, rubbing it as if that would banish the sudden fear that he felt. _It wasn't supposed to be this way_, he thought, and then shook his head. There was no use in thinking things like that. Nobody ever got to decide such matters. It was stupid, and worse yet, it was _indulgent_, and he'd be damned if he was going to let Severus Snape watch him pity himself. "If Voldemort attacks and Sirius or I are ... indisposed, I'd rather not leave the boys' lives up to chance or Harry." 

Severus snorted. "A wise choice, I'm sure." 

Remus pursed his lips and sighed heavily, a bit of Remus-language that Sirius always found amusing to decode: _I'm losing my patience, but you're thick-headed so nothing I do will make any difference._

Severus gifted him with a sidelong glance, and Remus shrugged. In the distance, he caught a glint of sunlight on white-blond hair, moving through the edges of the forest parallel to Remus' home. He nodded towards it, sipping his tea. "Draco's coming. Perfect timing, I think. I should get some lunch on for these growing boys." 

He stood, vanishing his chair with a wave of his wand before turning to look at Severus. "Will you stay? I know Draco would be thrilled if you did." Severus tilted his head up, dividing his attention between Remus and the approaching teenager. 

"How enticing," he said dryly. "Watching two children kick each other's shins for the afternoon." There was dirt on Draco's face, Remus observed in amazement. Dirt all up on his cheek and his forehead, and how on earth did Draco manage to do that? Snape made a thoughtful noise beside him. "He's becoming a savage under your care," Severus remarked. 

"No," Remus replied absently. "I accidentally dropped the hairbrush down the toilet the other day, and I think he's taking its loss rather personally." Severus smirked, but the expression in his flinty eyes suggested to Remus that this was Severus' dignified version of laughing. 

"He told me Potter had stolen it." 

"Mmm, no. That was me. Hello, Draco," he called, as the boy approached them. "You've dirt on your face." Draco looked at him blankly, frowned, and brought his arm up to rub furiously at his cheek, accomplishing nothing. Absurdly, Remus was reminded intensely of Sirius, who never seemed to know how dirt had gotten onto his face either. 

"Potter's a bastard," he said abruptly. 

Remus frowned thoughtfully at him. "You weren't chasing the Gins, were you?" Draco flushed. 

"It's Potter's fault," he replied. Remus pondered that while Draco disappeared into the house. Remus and Severus regarded each other silently. 

"That boy's logic is beyond me sometimes," Remus remarked. He surveyed the field beyond the pond, looking for a hint of where Harry had gone to. He hoped that Harry hadn't fallen asleep in the grass. 

"You should have known him when he was a child," Severus said, getting to his feet. He brushed invisible dust from his robes, pulling his wand out of his sleeve to vanish his chair away. "He was an appalling child." 

"I bet you two got along famously," Remus said, smiling placidly.

* * *

Consciousness came back to Harry in the form of a good sharp poke in the forehead. He flailed against the sudden assault, startled, opening his eyes only to be immediately blinded by the sun directly overhead. "Aargh," he said, scrunching his eyes up tight. Laughter came from above him, and cautiously he opened an eye. 

A halo of blond hair had moved into his line of vision, blocking out the sun, and as he opened his other eye he found himself staring directly into a pair of grey eyes. 

"I can't believe you fell asleep out here!" those eyes said cheerfully, the hair shaking with laughter. "Those beasts use this area for their toilet, don't you know that? That is completely foul, Potter." 

Harry blinked, and Malfoy's face came into sharp focus, upside-down above him. Malfoy was crouched over him, and as Harry stared up at him, he gave Harry another good poke in the forehead. "I've always wanted to do that," he said confidentially, and then his finger stayed where it was, resting on Harry's scar. 

"What do you want?" Harry growled, still drowsy with sleep and sun, and more than a little alarmed by Malfoy's behaviour. He would have expected a right smart prank while he was sleeping, especially after what he had said just before flying off, and when he had landed in the grass he had tried to stay wary. Eventually, sleep had overtaken him, and Malfoy's sudden appearance brought back the fear of attack. 

Malfoy didn't seem to want to attack him, however. Instead, he was tracing Harry's scar with his finger, so gently that Harry barely felt his touch at all. His lips were slightly parted. Harry couldn't remember a time that anybody had ever touched his scar, especially like this. 

"I was bored," Malfoy replied, his voice casual despite what he was doing. Harry swatted his hand away, frowning. 

"What are you doing?" 

Malfoy shrugged. He pulled back, and then dropped next to Harry as Harry pulled himself up, a trifle unsettled. "Professor Snape is gone, and the house is once again safe for little Gryffindors," he said. "It's lunchtime. I brought food. Here." He held out a napkin wrapped bundle to Harry, pulling another out of the pocket of his jacket. When Harry took it, he pulled out two apples and some chocolate, wrapped carefully in another napkin, and spread it out between them on the grass. Harry eyed it and wondered if the Gins really did their business in this area. He picked up a chocolate anyway, and they sat in silence for a while, eating. Malfoy ate his crusts first, turning the sandwich this way and that between his thin fingers until he had nibbled it all off before starting in on the rest. It was roast beef, and Harry supposed that Snape had brought them more food as well as having shown up to be a nuisance. A Gin wandered placidly by, and they both watched it pass. 

"I was tracing your scar," Malfoy said without preamble, breaking the comfortable quiet that had fallen between them. 

Harry blinked. "Huh?" 

"You asked what I was doing. I was tracing your scar," Malfoy repeated patiently. 

"Well, yeah, but why?" 

Malfoy grinned, holding the apple up and squinting at it, examining it closely for bruises. "Because I can. Because I wanted to." His eyes slid over to Harry. His grin widened. "Because you let me." 

Harry rolled his eyes. "You know I can't resist you," he said. 

"Not if you tried," Malfoy said smugly, and then paused. The grin faded, and he lowered the apple back into his lap. Harry eyed him closely, hoping that Malfoy hadn't just lulled him into letting his guard down only to beat the hell out of him now. But Malfoy looked more like he was choking on whatever he was going to say than plotting something. When his eyes abruptly squeezed shut, Harry raised a hand to offer comfort, automatically, before remembering that this was _Malfoy_ and what was he _doing_? He replaced his hand at his side before Malfoy could notice what he had almost done. 

Malfoy heaved a deep breath and opened his eyes. He glanced over at Harry again, almost shyly. "Did I ever tell you about my father? Did you ever hear about him? I mean, I suppose you know him. You met him in the bookstore. But ... you don't _know_ him. Not many people do." Harry opened his mouth to comment, but Malfoy flapped a hand at him. "I don't mean the version you've probably heard from Black and that idiot half-giant. I mean ... him. The real man he is. He's a good man." Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

"Good men don't give possessed diaries to eleven year old girls." 

Malfoy flushed, and drew his knees up to his chest. "I don't know anything about that. And you're being annoying, you know. I'm trying to talk to you, and there you go, flapping your jaws away as though you've got an answer to everything I'm going to say. Shut up for a minute, alright Potter? I thought you liked having these little heart-to-hearts with me." 

Harry considered that sceptically. "Didn't we just spend the last couple weeks avoiding anything having to do with hearts or feelings?" 

Malfoy raised a delicate eyebrow at him. "Well, yes. But I didn't think you were observant enough to realize that." 

Harry shrugged, and returned his attention to his sandwich. He wouldn't know subtlety if it blew fire out of its rear and tried to eat him, he'd be willing to admit if he'd ever thought about it, but he knew that Malfoy was just dancing circles around whatever he wanted to say to Harry. 

"My father and I plan trips," Malfoy said. Harry looked over at him, and was startled to see Malfoy smiling, his anxiety vanished. Malfoy's eyes flicked over to him, and his smile widened. "It's silly, I know. But whenever I see him, whenever I go home on holiday, we talk about all the places we'll go, the things we'll buy, the food we'll eat, all over the world. This ... this time, before what happened, we were going to go to Borneo. There are these caves there, and you can live in a hotel that's built in the treetops, like a savage. We sat in the gardens and talked for hours." He leaned in close to Harry, and whispered conspiratorially, "There are orang-utan in Borneo. You can go hunting for them." 

Harry frowned. "I thought orang-utans were endangered or something." Malfoy hit him on the shoulder. 

"Not to kill them, you idiot. Just to see them. They're very rare." The Gin had wandered back towards them, and bumped its head against Malfoy's face. Malfoy patted it distractedly, and it mooed with pleasure, a tendril of smoke curling out of its nostrils. Harry fought back a giggle, feeling as though he had landed on another planet. Lucius Malfoy, a nature lover, wanting to see orang-utans? _Maybe_, Harry thought, _if he wanted to chop the babies into little pieces and feed them to Voldemort_. He tried to think of a reasonable way to explain this to Malfoy and came up short. "My father ... he's an important man. And he has very high standards for me, so ... I understand that he doesn't have much time to coddle me. And besides," Malfoy said, his grin crooked. "That's just not who he is. But he wants to travel with me, spend time with me. So he must ..." Malfoy trailed off, looking confused. Harry picked a blade of grass and held it out to the Gin. 

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked. Malfoy sighed. The Gin lipped Harry's fingers carefully, catching the blade of grass along its scratchy tongue, and ambled closer for more treats. Harry offered it his apple. 

"Because you're a right bastard, Potter." 

Harry burst out laughing, startled. He squinted at Malfoy and waited for more. Malfoy cocked his head, rolling his eyes. 

"I'm telling you this, Potter ... I'm telling you all of this because you're not who I thought you were. Perfect Potter ... I don't think that's who you are. But that's alright. Maybe I like you better this way. So if you're up for another heart-to-heart, I want to tell you something. But I wanted to make sure that you understood first, who my dad is." Harry nodded. Malfoy shifted uncomfortably from side to side. "Just because you hate him doesn't mean that he's a bad person. And ... and I don't know how to say it!" he burst out suddenly, his voice desperate. "I can't _tell_ you, I can't say it without choking on the words. My dad's a good person and what I want to say ... what I think ... they're terrible things. And that makes me a terrible person." He paused, staring Harry full in the face. "But since you're not perfect, since you're not who I thought you were ... maybe you'll understand that I have to say it anyway." 

Malfoy's fingers dug furrows in the long grass beneath them, and Harry watched Malfoy's face carefully. He had been getting better at reading Malfoy's expressions, after the month that they had been forced to live together, but was taken aback at the look in the other boy's eyes. His face was flushed, high spots of colour flaring above his cheekbones. He looked back and forth between Harry and the Gin, standing patiently in front of them. His chest heaved deep, desperate breaths. 

"It was my dad who cast the spell on me." 

Malfoy's face jerked up towards the sky at the same moment that his eyes closed. 

"My ... father was the one who held me down, and forced his wand into my mouth after the other Death Eaters had ... had hit me until I could barely move. It was him." 

Malfoy leapt to his feet, his fists clenched. The Gin, startled, wheeled away and disappeared into the long grass. Malfoy watched it go, and then turned back to Harry, looking down at him as if embarrassed for his outburst. "How could I say something like that about my own father?" he asked. "He loves me! But how ... how could he ..." 

They stared silently at each other for a long moment, and the wind blew Malfoy's hair across his face in a fine spray of colour. Slowly, Malfoy sat back down, bringing his knees back up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them tightly. 

Harry lifted his hand, and stared at it. Considered. And then laid it gingerly across Malfoy's shoulders, giving him a brief pat. Malfoy huffed quietly, but didn't pull away; Harry could almost imagine Malfoy's shoulders relaxing, just a little bit. 

"I want to kill Voldemort," he told Malfoy. "Not just because he's my enemy or whatever, or because of the bad things that he's done ... I want him dead and I want to be the one who does it. I think ..." He stopped, and flushed. "I've never told this to anyone. But I used to think about killing the Dursleys too – they're the Muggles that I live with. Just ... lighting their house on fire or something. Because sometimes they deserve it. Or at least I used to think that they did, I guess." He worried at his lower lip, painfully aware of Malfoy's thin body against his arm, the heat leaking through the arm of his jumper. But it didn't feel strange anymore, to be ... comforting Malfoy. To be talking to him. "I used to think you were a bad person." Malfoy stirred against him. "I don't think that anymore," he added lamely. "I just mean that ... I don't think saying that stuff makes you a bad person." 

Malfoy was quiet for a long moment. Then, so quietly that Harry almost didn't hear it, "Thanks." 

Harry watched the rise and fall of Malfoy's chest as he breathed, and when he sighed and leaned his head against Harry's shoulder, Harry decided that maybe that was all right.

* * *

Sirius was Ported a half mile away from the Farmhouse, and each step he took closer to his Remus built the excitement in his chest until he knew that his heart would simply explode and run like melted wax down his body if he did not get home that very instant. He shifted to Padfoot for the dog's superior speed, and ran under the moonlight, the fields that flew underneath his feet illuminated by the waxing moon, nearly full, that hung over his head. As he got closer, he could smell wood smoke, the flatulence of the Dingwall Gins, and as he passed through the barriers that protected Remus' house, the faint odour of roast chicken, two slightly unwashed teenage boys, and the faint, dry scent of Remus. 

Sirius slipped quietly into the house, shifting out of Padfoot's body as his paws hit the entryway floor. He shut the door behind him softly, snuffling a bit to catch the scent of food. Definitely roast chicken. He briefly considered rooting around in the fridge to see if there were any leftovers – he hadn't eaten since late morning – but his stomach was overruled without a second thought. Food could certainly wait for later. 

He moved through the living room and up the stairs noiselessly, and was utterly astonished to discover that a light was still on. It cut a wide swatch across the hallway from the door on the right, Harry's room, which hadn't been visible from the front of the house. The crack betrayed voices as well; it was godawful o'clock in the morning, and the boys were still awake. Sirius rolled his eyes, creeping close. 

" – just wanted to see it! Honestly, Potter. If I wanted to get you in trouble, I wouldn't have been breaking curfew to do it, I would have simply told on you." 

"Come off it." Laughter. Sirius frowned. "You're just embarrassed that you got caught." 

_The hell?_ Sirius thought. He leaned in close to the door, feeling a bit foolish, his head cocked. There was a soft crinkling sound – after decades of knowing Remus, Sirius would know the sound of a chocolate wrapper anywhere. "Ha, I was right. You're blushing." 

"I don't blush!" came the reply, a haughty sniff. Sirius craned his neck forward, and through the open crack saw Harry sitting cross-legged on his bed, dividing up a chocolate bar in his lap. He was grinning as he passed a section of it beyond Sirius' viewpoint, to Malfoy, obviously. 

"Well, maybe not blush. But you go all pink when you're embarrassed. Right up here," Harry said, and gestured at his cheekbones, nearly smearing chocolate against his face. 

"I'll have you know that you blush like a plebe, your entire face turns this awful shade of red." 

Sirius knocked lightly on the door, and it swung open under his knuckles. The two boys sat facing each other on their separate beds; Malfoy had one leg curled underneath his body, leaning back on his uninjured hand. Harry was leaning forward towards him. They both jumped when the door opened, and Harry jumped to his feet. "Sirius!" he exclaimed, and Sirius was pleased to see that he looked positively overjoyed to see him. "Did you just get back?" 

Sirius nodded. He and Malfoy frowned at each other, and then Sirius pulled Harry into a one-armed hug. "What're you doing, standing over there?" he asked. "I think you grew a foot while I was away, you know that?" Harry very nearly giggled. "Does Remus know that you two are still awake?" Harry and Malfoy exchanged a near conspiratorial glance. 

"No," Harry admitted. "He went to bed a while ago." 

"Right," Sirius said in his best godfather-voice, "Off to sleep with you, then. How about a game of Quodpot in the morning, eh? I bet we could charm some rocks for the exploding bit." Harry nodded, still grinning, and Sirius released him. He ignored the urge to wag a finger at them and throw in a threat of bodily harm if they didn't get to bed. They launched immediately back into conversation when he closed their door behind him. Sirius smiled into the darkness of the hallway, a hand still braced on the doorframe, knowing full well that they'd be up for hours yet. 

The door clicked quietly as it shut behind him. Their room – or was it just Remus' room? – didn't face the moonlight, which was a small relief. The room was blanketed in shadows, but Sirius still had enough light to see his Moony by. 

Remus lay sprawled across the bed, his lanky body curved gently into a bow. His arms were flung above his hand, his legs twisted. He was bare-chested, clad only in a pair of loose cotton pyjama bottoms, and Sirius watched the rise and fall of Remus' torso as he took stock, by long habit, of the scars that were littered across the pale expanse of skin. The arms, covered by circular marks, mainly old bites. Thinner marks by the wrists, on the hands. Two perfectly parallel marks that ran down the side of Remus' neck, ending abruptly at the collarbone. The scars on his face, given to him by Sirius himself, only months before Wormtail had betrayed them all. 

And of course, the Mark from the werewolf that had bitten him when he was a small boy; lighter, older than the others, starting right above the left hipbone and spreading across his stomach in patches, continuing up the left arm all the way to the shoulder. Remus had told him about it once, after an ill-advised night of school-age drinking. The story had been gory, but the pale scattering of scars bothered Sirius no more than the others, and hadn't for years. He tilted his head. No new scars, of course; he had at least two days on the full moon. It was good to just ... make sure, though. He settled himself carefully on the edge of the bed, pulling off his boots with as little motion as he could. Remus snorted in his sleep and turned over, away from Sirius. Sirius grinned. 

Remus' shoulders were narrow and sloped inwards slightly, from years of poor nutrition, Sirius guessed. He saw it in himself, and what little he could recall of Moony's eating habits once they'd graduated probably didn't bode well for the years in between, years that Sirius knew very little about. 

He curled himself around Remus' form carefully, already feeling muscles that would be sore in the morning from his run. Remus stirred as Sirius draped an arm around him, snuffling softly. "Mmm. Sirius." 

"Hi there, gorgeous," Sirius said softly. 

"Hello yourself," Remus replied. Sirius could hear the smile in his voice. 

"Sorry to have woken you." 

"No, no. When did you get back?" Remus shifted slowly in Sirius' arms, scooting around until he was facing Sirius. He smiled vaguely, his eyes still fogged with sleep. 

"Just now," Sirius said. "I noticed that Harry and, uh, Draco seem to be ... getting along better." 

Remus' smile broadened. "We've survived. I take it they're still awake?" 

"And chatting like old friends," Sirius replied glumly. 

Remus sighed happily. "Finally. I can't tell you what a relief that is, having them finally on speaking terms. I thought I'd have to deal with fistfights every day for the next few months." 

He leaned forward, brushing his lips against Sirius'. Sirius grinned and brought a hand up to Remus' jaw, pulling him close for a thorough, humid kiss. "It's probably good for Harry," Remus said thoughtfully when Sirius pulled away, as though there had been no lapse in speaking. Sirius rolled his eyes. "It does him good to be distracted from worrying about Voldemort, or Cedric Diggory's death, at least." 

Sirius grunted. "He does seem to have a bit of a 'saving people' thing, doesn't he?" He ran the back of his hand across Remus' cheek, smiling slightly when Remus closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. Their feet tangled together, and Sirius breathed Remus' scent in gratefully, happy to be back with his Moony. 

Remus laughed hoarsely, wrapping an arm around Sirius' waist. "That's an interesting way to put it. So, how was your spying expedition? Any news?" 

"Mmm," Sirius said, pushing his face into the crook of Remus' neck, nuzzling at his skin. "Well, a lot of nothing on my assignment. Absolutely no trace of anybody in old haunts. But Arthur called in some favors at the Ministry, and found out that Lucius Malfoy was doing some intensive research on spells from the Dark Ages a few weeks back, so that gives us an interesting lead on what was done to his kid. Kingsley's leading a hunt for me in Iceland now. Hagrid and Moody have finally returned from their missions. But I haven't seen you for two weeks, do you _really_ want to talk about current events?" Remus drew him forward in response, pressing his entire body against Sirius, scattering open-mouthed kisses across his neck and up, nipping at bit at his lips. He moved slowly against Sirius, his hands pushing Sirius' shirt up to rake his nails down the skin underneath. 

"I did miss you, you know," he breathed. Sirius laughed, and pulled back a bit, crinkling his nose as he shared Remus' smile. He leaned back in to rub his nose against Remus' nose, happiness bubbling up and over inside his chest. _I'll never lose you again. I promise._

"Are you sick, Moony?" he asked, after a moment. He could tell by the way that Remus stiffened against him that the answer was 'yes.' 

"No," Remus said warily. 

"Your breathing sounds funny," Sirius explained, and frowned when Remus shifted backwards a bit, lowering his jaw mulishly. 

"Sirius, I'm fine. And right now, there are more pressing things to think about, such as why you still have your clothes on." 

Sirius blinked, and weighed his options: pursue Remus about a subject that he was mysteriously testy about, or get naked? He shrugged, supposed that the outcome had never been in doubt, and got naked as quickly as humanly possible. He had plenty of time to bother Remus about it later, after all, and his time right now would be much better spent doing ... _oh, yes, that._

"Mmmm," Remus breathed. "Much better."


	7. Casualties of War: Passing into Memory

**Casualties of War: Passing into Memory**

by hans bekhart 

Summary: Not so brilliant ideas, tub sex, and a whole lot of secrets are starting to come to a head. 

Notes and Warnings: Thanks and praise to my ever rockin' betas: lildove42, aralias and frogslayr, who keep me in line. There's a lot of personal stuff in this chapter. The photograph described is real, and if you're curious about seeing it, it can be found in my photography journal on LiveJournal, hitheronlegs. The grapefruit juice anectdote is real, and the mention of Dean Thomas is from another story I wrote, which can be found in my author page. The unorthodox use of gillyweed, as implied within, belongs of course to the wonderful shoeboxproject. 

* * *

Lycanthropy exists in every cell of a werewolf's body. Werewolves are normal humans for twenty-seven days out of every twenty-eight, but the curse that infects them, infects every part of them. Werewolves, in their human state, tend to have a keen sense of smell and terrible vision, like true wolves. They are often also deceptively thin and very strong, with vaguely animalistic features. 

Peter had been the first to catch on to the regularity of their friend's disappearances, but for Sirius the first sign, the first confirmation that Peter was right, had been Remus' body language. So many of Remus' mannerisms seemed secretive, invasive, until you learned to decode the language of head tilts, expressive eyes and the curve of his mouth. As Padfoot, Sirius had always been the best at understanding their friend, but it was a hard-won understanding, full of mistakes. Moony had nearly had his head more times than could be counted because of canine miscommunication, but Remus would seldom push further than a huffy silence. Since Azkaban, Sirius had noticed that Remus' mannerisms had become less lupine – Remus had said with a laugh that he had become a master of becoming what people wanted to see – but he had not forgotten so much about his friend that he couldn't tell when Remus was simply not fit for company. 

Sirius spent most of the day of the full moon as Padfoot. Remus was edgy, snappish, and hadn't lasted until lunch before Sirius had quarantined him upstairs. He was used to it, of course; Remus had been famous for his mood swings during their adolescence, and usually one or the other of their pack would spend the day before his transformation with him, locked away in a quiet corner of Hogwarts. Padfoot was a solid, reassuring presence; once Remus had been banished from the ground floor, Sirius had made his apologies to Harry and Draco and headed upstairs in the guise of a loveable stray, curling up beside Remus on their bed and letting him push his fingers through Padfoot's thick black fur. He didn't need to ask to know that Remus was terrified. Padfoot would be a better companion in a time like this: to Sirius, Remus might feel compelled to talk about his anxiety. 

They slept the afternoon away, and when Sirius awoke, he was alone. He sat up slowly, stretching out the kinks in his body that sleeping as a dog had brought. He had fallen asleep with a fist buried in the fur on his neck, and he rubbed at the spot tiredly, yawning as he padded downstairs. Voices floated up the stairwell. 

"Did you just put on a _polka_? You did. I can't believe you just did that." 

"Shut up! Just wait and listen." 

Sirius' head cocked, and he paused, hand on the banister. _What the hell?_ He paused as he stepped off the stairwell, ears perked for the sound of ... polka. He stepped right instead of turning left into the living room, heading into the little used entryway and the room that stood at the end of it. As he rounded the corner neatly, past the coat space that held a single, filthy cloak, he caught sight of Remus, leaning heavily against the open doorway of the room he affectionately referred to as his den, his arms folded around him. The boys' voices floated out, Harry and Draco themselves blocked by Remus' body. Apparently, they had discovered Remus' records. He paused, and as the teenagers erupted into laughter at the bawdy lyrics of the polka, he realized that Remus was simply watching them silently, and that they were unaware of his presence. 

Odd, but not entirely unheard of from Remus, who was prone to doing rather strange things. When they were at school, Remus had been known to suddenly launch into the tail end of a conversation, the majority of which had been carried out in his head, and then be completely surprised when it made no sense to anyone else. That was normal behaviour for him, which would of course multiply exponentially in weirdness – as Lily had once put it, unaware of the reason why – the week around the full moon. One of the things that had startled Sirius most about seeing Remus again was that the man no longer stumbled over words as his brain churned out ideas faster than his mouth could keep up; he was the very definition of the charming, slightly eccentric professor. 

Sirius crept up quietly behind Remus. Normally, Remus would have caught his scent as he came down the stairs, but the impending moon, now barely hours from rising, was surely playing havoc on his senses. Thus he was able to thoroughly scare all three of the other occupants of the Farmhouse when he slid an arm smoothly around Remus' waist and said conversationally, "We used to call him Queenie at school." 

Harry and Malfoy jumped, whirling around as best they could with the records piled high around them. They gaped openly at Remus and Sirius, standing in the doorway behind him. Remus had turned his head at Sirius' hand on his waist, and his chin had bumped Sirius' nose before he pulled back to smile placidly at him. Sirius looked back to the boys in time to see Draco throw an elbow into Harry's side and give him a knowing look. Harry laughed, stifling it behind his hand, and looked embarrassed. "Hi Sirius, hi – Remus." The other kid gave Sirius and innocent grin. Sirius frowned at him. 

Sirius felt rather than heard Remus laugh softly at Harry's hesitation at using his first name. "I see you've discovered my records." 

"Did they really call you Queenie?" Malfoy asked, referring to the girl featured in the song, who was always a lady, even in pantomime. 

Remus cringed. 

"A rather unfortunate incident involving gillyweed, which I refuse to discuss. Sirius, I forbid you to tell them later." Sirius feigned indignation, hooking Remus in closer and giving him a surreptitious caress on the small of his back. 

"I would do no such thing. Give them all sorts of ideas, I'm sure." He winked broadly at Harry, who winked back. 

Remus moved towards the couch, brushing his hand against Sirius almost apologetically. He sat heavily on the ancient sofa, the worn cushions so flattened out that his knees were roughly at the same level as his chest. Sirius settled comfortably into the doorframe that Remus had vacated, and after a moment, Malfoy picked himself off the floor to claim a spot next to Remus. Harry looked slightly dejected, but when Malfoy gave him a leer he stuck his tongue out and seemed satisfied. Remus watched them avidly, his eyes bright. Sirius knew that look: it meant that he'd be on the receiving end of half an internal conversation that would nearly make sense, if Remus hadn't managed to completely exorcise that habit by now. 

"Well," Remus said. "Is anybody hungry?" 

Harry grinned unexpectedly, but it was Draco who answered. "We found where you were hiding all that chocolate." Remus' mild expression fell slightly. "We ate some fruit too, and bread," Draco added, completely misinterpreting the look of devastation that had appeared on Remus' face. Sirius grinned, and Remus gave him an evil look. 

"There's ... hmm. Roast beef, I think. I'm not sure that I trust you two, or you Sirius so you can take that look off your face right now, with the hamburger meat, so we'll save that for another day. I have full confidence in your sandwich making skills, however, so how does that sound? Roast beef sandwiches whenever you're hungry, and I believe there are some pears. I know that they won't be eaten, but I'm simply mentioning them." 

Sirius smiled placatingly, noticing that both boys nodded distantly in acknowledgement that no, the pears would not be eaten. He wondered if he should grab something to eat before the moon rose. He was fairly sure that Moony was not in the habit of snacking on the Dingwall Gins, and he wasn't sure what other sort of fauna the area around the Farmhouse offered that could be a tempting midnight snack for a werewolf and a wizard with very low standards when it came to food. 

Remus rose unsteadily, gripping the arm of the couch for balance. "Well, I think _I'll_ have a pear," he said dryly. Sirius followed him into the kitchen, the boys trailing dutifully behind. Remus took a pear out of the cabinet and stared at it, apparently trying to will himself to eat it. Sirius snatched it from his hand and laid it onto the counter top, cutting it into slices and handing them around. Remus nibbled. Harry inhaled his slice. And Draco Malfoy stared Sirius down as they held their portions. 

"What?" Sirius asked. Another glance was exchanged between Harry and Malfoy. Sirius raised an eyebrow, directing a glance at Harry. "Something on your mind?" 

Malfoy inhaled deeply, and put the pear slice back on the counter top, where Remus eyed it warily from behind his own partially nibbled piece in the brief moment before Draco spoke to him. "We want to be there for your ... transformation." 

"No," Remus replied. 

Draco transformed instantly in a way that was uncomfortably familiar to Sirius: the spoiled pout, the shifting of weight on the hips, the folded arms. His bottom lip stuck out petulantly. 

"Why not?" he asked. "You've got that potion, you're perfectly safe – " 

That was actually a fair point, Sirius conceded, but before he could point that out, Remus was shaking his head. 

"_Mostly_ safe. I've never experimented to see exactly how safe I am around humans, and I have no wish to try it out now." _When what happened last time might happen again_, he didn't need to add. Harry stared at the floor. Draco pouted. 

"Well," Sirius began, and Draco looked to him hopefully, "We could always have them stay inside for an hour or two after moonrise, and then – " 

Remus cut him off abruptly. "Absolutely not." He stalked away, his face set. Harry and Malfoy exchanged woeful glances, and Sirius turned his head to watch as Remus began to rummage through his desk, purposefully turning his back on the discussion. He shrugged when the boys looked to him, and followed Remus into the study. 

------------------------- 

"Potter, what does it look like?" 

They'd been in the attic for hours, and Malfoy kept coming over and putting things on Harry's head. A book, a bit of holiday tinsel. This was the first time he'd spoken for well over an hour, and Harry couldn't even see him from behind where he'd parked himself behind a mountain of boxes. 

"What? What does what look like?" 

"The werewolf," Malfoy said, patiently, which made Harry feel a bit nervous. 

"Oh. Er, it's big. A lot bigger than Snuffles – er, Sirius. When he's in his Animagus form." 

Malfoy snorted. "You're so descriptive." Harry tossed a book in his general direction, which earned him a laugh. 

"It goes on four legs," he said. "And ... it can grab things with its front, er, paws." 

Malfoy emerged from his hiding place and sat cross-legged next to Harry, putting the big folder he held firmly on both of their laps. Harry looked at the papers that spilled from it, searching for significance. "What colour is it?" 

"Brown," Harry replied, shifting through the papers. "Well, sort of. I guess. Don't you feel weird talking about Lupin like he's an 'it'?" Malfoy shrugged. 

"How is _he_, if you like that better, only sort of brown?" He pulled an old, faded photograph from the pile, and both boys squinted at it. 

"Gross," Harry said. "Are those heads?" 

Malfoy nodded. Indeed they were; a fairly neat row of them, with the bodies just behind, and a row of men standing proudly behind them donned in old-fashioned clothes, complete with safari hats. 

"Disgusting," he said. "I think it's from Hong Kong. It was in a whole box filled with things in Chinese. Remus said he used to live there." They admired the grotesqueness of the photo for a moment before setting it aside. 

"Do you think Sirius will tell us the gillyweed story?" Malfoy asked. 

Harry shrugged, passing over his mug of pumpkin juice when the other boy looked pointedly at it. 

"There are these brilliant masks over in that box there. Dean had some idea in third year that Lupin had lived with some tribes in Africa. Wish he could see those masks." 

Malfoy drank most of Harry's juice in two long sips. "Dean who?" he asked idly. Harry glared at him. 

"Dean Thomas. He's in our year." 

"Ah," Malfoy said. "The artist. Oh please, as if you can name any Slytherins who don't hang around with me." 

"There's that, er, stringy looking boy. I know him." 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I wish we could see him," he said grumpily. 

Harry looked over, confused. "The stringy boy?" 

Malfoy smacked him on the shoulder. "The werewolf. Remus." 

Harry studied him, and realized with something like horror that something was forming in his mind: an idea that would make the Slytherin very happy indeed. 

------------------------- 

"How is your research coming?" Sirius asked as Remus undressed, shedding his clothes carefully, folding each piece and setting it neatly on the ground as though he weren't on the verge of panic. Remus glanced at the horizon before replying; they stood outside, on the other end of the pond where, Remus had said, Harry and Draco had quite a heart-to-heart the week previous. Moonrise was barely minutes away. He shrugged with one shoulder, removing his trousers reluctantly. 

"I think I've found something that might be useful," he said vaguely, looking around as if trying to decide which hank of grass to lay his clothing on. Sirius took them out of his hands, sending them back to the house with a wave of his wand. 

He stepped closer, rubbing his hands in broad strokes over Remus' bare skin, turning his fingers in to scratch lightly over Remus' back. His body was preparing for the change, and for hours before and afterwards his skin wouldn't seem to fit quite right. A bit of a massage was the best thing for it; they had all known how to care for Remus, Sirius thought bitterly, and after Harry was born Lily had always wondered how such abrasive boys could be so gentle. They had learned how years before. Remus swayed towards him, resting his head carefully on Sirius' shoulder. Sirius wrapped his arms around the taller man, bringing him in close, looking over Remus' head towards the horizon, where the moon had started to show its pale face. He couldn't remember if Remus always trembled this much before transforming. He brought his hands up to rub gently at the base of Remus' skull just as Remus brought his arms up to wrap tightly around Sirius. He could feel Remus panting harshly against his neck, and didn't bother to ask if Remus was alright. 

"I think that Harry and Draco are up to something," Remus whispered. 

Sirius shrugged. "I warded most of the windows shut. And all the doors are warded. Did you really think I was going to leave them to their own devices?" 

Remus chuckled hoarsely. 

"Draco's wanted it so badly," he said randomly. "He hasn't been able to keep himself from talking to me about it." Sirius frowned, watching the inexorable climb of the moon into the sky, trying to calculate the time they had left to them. 

"You really need to clue me in on the entire conversation, Moony," he replied, threading his fingers through Remus' hair. "What are you talking about?" 

"Tell you later," came the muffled response. "_Oh god._" 

Remus' legs gave out under him, and Sirius barely managed to catch him around the waist and lower him to the ground. Remus clutched at his shoulders, hard enough to leave bruises, and when they locked eyes Sirius only had a moment to try and convey reassurance, that he was there and he would keep Remus safe before Remus arched upwards in his arms, his head thrown back, mouth open wide in a soundless scream, and the change began. 

Sirius had seen the transformation countless times. They had had to wait nearly a year after their first animagus transformation before Remus would allow them into the Shack with him before transforming, instead of coming for him afterwards, and every time he had witnessed it since that first, horrifying time, it had created conflicting emotions within him. It had terrified them, that first time, nearly as much as their very first full moon romp had done. It had made him feel sickeningly guilty for months after he had sent Snape to the Willow. And once, only weeks before Dumbledore had come to them with the idea of the Fidelius Charm, it had made him happy that the traitor, their betrayer, was in the agony that he deserved. He had told Lily and James, afterwards, and Lily had slapped him and wouldn't speak to him for a week. 

It started, to the outward observer, in Remus' hands. He splayed his fingers, a gesture that Sirius had never been sure if Remus was aware of, as the bones in them broke and shifted, black claws emerging from beneath his fingernails. It worked its way up his arms and to his torso, the part that had alarmed James the most that first time, when his ribcage collapsed underneath his skin, curling forward and out as they took on the shape of the wolf. For Sirius, the most awful part was Remus' feet, as they splintered and mended themselves into long haunches. He felt Remus' heart shudder underneath his palm and stop, and Sirius counted the seconds breathlessly, waiting for the gasp that would signal the ability to breathe again just before the face would begin to stretch and break apart and fur begin to sprout. 

"I love you," Sirius told Remus as his eyes changed from gold to muddy green, and shifted to Padfoot with a pang of guilt for the ease of it. He backed up a few paces, watching Remus writhe through the stages of his transformation. This was when the werewolf was the most dangerous, and when it inflicted the most damage on itself, as it tore mindlessly at the source of its pain or any potential threat nearby. Sirius had found that out the hard way, three full moons after the first time that Remus had allowed them to watch him change, when he had been flung down the stairs of the Shrieking Shack. The impact had broken two ribs, and they had kept their distance afterwards. 

The werewolf lay on his side, his sides heaving, and Padfoot whined high in his throat, shuffling his paws. A whimper was his answer, and Sirius trotted forward, pushing his nose into the werewolf's neck and giving him a good sniff-over, licking at a long gash that had opened under the werewolf's arm. The werewolf snuffled, curling inwards as it tried to gather the strength to rise. Sirius nosed it gently, giving little whines of encouragement. With the Wolfsbane potion, it took much longer for Remus to recover; the werewolf, in control, would be up within seconds, pissed off and looking for the source of its agony. Remus' mind took a bit more time to recover. After a long moment, it lifted his muzzle and nuzzled Sirius back, huffing a bit as it stuck his face between Sirius' front paws for no reason that Sirius could discern. Its heavy claws dug furrows into the dirt as it lifted itself to its feet, shaking its shoulders from side to side. Its head lifted up, scenting something, and it barked at Padfoot and set off at a run. 

Sirius followed dutifully. Hopefully Moony was after some food, or a Gin; he was still hungry, after all. 

------------------------- 

"I never said it was a _good_ idea, you know," Harry said hopefully. His legs dangled out the window; the sill was digging into his butt where he was perched, halfway out the window that overlooked the front of the house. The window in Remus and Sirius' bedroom, he amended, and wondered briefly why they hadn't taken the time to transfigure separate beds, the way they had for Harry and Malfoy's room, and if maybe Malfoy was right. 

"Don't be silly, Potter," Malfoy said soothingly. "It was brilliant idea. You're a wizard, you've got lots of good, quality blood in you. You won't break your head or anything silly like that." 

Harry twisted around to glare at him. "Then why don't you go first?" 

"I need something to land on," Malfoy replied, and pushed him out the window. 

Harry landed on his tailbone with a thump. He felt the impact all the way up his spine, but had only managed to wince before Malfoy landed on top of him in a tangle of arms and legs. "You have to be the boniest person I know," he complained as he shoved Malfoy away. 

"That's only because you've never been underneath 'that stringy boy,' as you call him," Malfoy replied, looking annoyingly dignified even as he stood up and brushed dirt off of his jumper. 

Harry stared at Malfoy as he pushed himself off the ground. "And you have?" 

Malfoy coloured and turned swiftly away. "I wonder where they went?" he said idly, his face still pink. 

It had taken them quite a bit of time to find a way out of the house. When he had seen that dejected look on Malfoy's face in the attic, finding an escape route out of the house had seemed like a good idea at the time, especially since he had noted that Sirius hadn't gone into the other bedroom when he had been warding the house shut before the moon rose. You don't pay attention to rules anyway, he told himself. And even Sirius said that the potion made Lupin safe. 

"Don't think I've ever seen the front of the house," Malfoy remarked. Harry shrugged and moved to stand by him, craning his head to look at the front side of the Farmhouse, which wasn't any more interesting than the back, he thought. _The door's in a different spot. But that might be it._

"What did you mean, you've been 'underneath' that boy?" 

Malfoy stuck his tongue out at Harry. "None of your business," he said stiffly. "You don't even know his name." 

"What does that have to do with anything?" Harry asked, annoyed. 

Malfoy opened his mouth to reply, and then hesitated. "Did you hear that?" he asked anxiously. 

Harry scowled. "No," he said. "Why do you look so scared? This was your idea." 

Malfoy turned back to him, his lip curling, and got as far as "It was not, it – " before the werewolf came around the corner of the house and they both froze. 

It was bigger than Harry remembered, and it looked less like Lupin then he had thought. He could still see the scars on its face in the same places as the ones on Lupin's face, but other than that it looked much less familiar than he had thought it would be. It craned its neck out towards them, and dimly Harry heard two sounds: the drumming of huge paws that signalled Snuffles' approach, and a soft sigh that escaped from Malfoy beside him. The werewolf growled softly, and Harry wondered how safe 'mostly safe' was. 

The werewolf stood almost gracefully on long, powerful legs. Its fur was a tawny colour that was bleached almost silver in the moonlight. It lifted a paw cautiously, stepping towards them, and Harry heard Malfoy's intake of breath at the sight of those huge, deadly paws that still, somehow, resembled human hands. _It still looks human_, Harry thought, and didn't notice that he had spoken aloud until Malfoy replied. 

"Yes," he breathed. 

Padfoot rounded the side of the house at a near gallop, skidding a bit on the slick grass. He stopped short when he caught side of Harry and Malfoy, and let out a surprised bark. They looked to him guiltily, and nobody saw the werewolf start to run towards them. 

It had a smooth lope to its movements, and Harry was reminded of the nature programs that Dudley had been briefly fascinated by before learning that he could not have a hyena of his own. Harry looked to Malfoy to see a rather dazed expression on his face, as if he had been spellbound by the creature approaching. His expression turned to terror only when the werewolf was mere feet away from them, and by that time it was too late to run. 

The werewolf barrelled into Malfoy just as he turned to run, and they both went sprawling. Harry froze, his wand out, as Padfoot shot past him, snarling. The werewolf paid the massive dog no attention; it had Malfoy pinned underneath its great body, its face inches away from his as it took heavy panting breaths. 

"Malfoy," Harry called softly, inching forward. Malfoy looked at him and back to the werewolf, his face bloodless. Sirius circled, growling in warning. "Malfoy, are you alright?" 

"Help," Malfoy squeaked. Harry couldn't even find it funny under the circumstances; the werewolf had shifted its attention, moving one paw up to Malfoy's collarbone to keep him pinned while it sniffed and snorted its way down his right arm, pushing the sleeve of Malfoy's jumper up with its other paw to get to the bandages. Malfoy whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. 

Padfoot lunged forward, latching onto the werewolf's foreleg and yanking furiously. It shook him off and then paused, one paw still suspended in the air. It looked at Harry, blinking, and Harry thought he could see a spark of confusion deep in its eyes. "Professor Lupin?" he asked. It blinked, and then slowly, carefully, stepped off of where it had Malfoy pressed down. Harry moved forward quickly, pulling Malfoy to his feet and backing away. Padfoot moved in front of them, still growling, but the werewolf had sat down quietly on its haunches, its tongue lolling out of its mouth as it panted. It looked quite harmless and possibly a bit apologetic. It made no move to stop them as they moved away towards the house. 

Sirius slammed the door behind him as soon as they were all safely inside, crowded into the narrow front hall. "What the hell were you doing out there?" he hissed. Harry glanced at Malfoy, who was clutching his burned arm to his chest, his face pale. 

"What happened?" Harry asked. 

Sirius scowled, turning around to look out through the stained glass. "No idea," he growled, his face pained. "He's supposed to be perfectly safe. Maybe the smell of Draco's arm – sorry – drove him crazy, maybe what happened last month makes the Wolfsbane Potion ineffective ... or maybe his anal, neurotic brain just snapped when he saw that rules had been broken – how the hell should I know? I – haven't been with him, lately. Not transformed." Sirius looked faintly, obscurely embarrassed. Harry moved forward to stand by him by the window, peering outside for any sign of the werewolf. 

"Maybe – " he began, but Sirius had turned towards him, glaring. 

"Why are we having this conversation," he asked slowly, "Like we were all adults? As if you two didn't just completely disregard what we told you to do, ignore any sort of respect I thought we had between each other, and go out in what we assured you was a very dangerous situation?" 

He stared hard at Harry, crossing his arms over his chest. Harry dropped his eyes. He didn't dare look at Malfoy. 

"We're all going to talk about this later," Sirius said, his voice tight, when Harry made no reply. He sounded a bit like a parent, a dad, and Harry risked a glance up to see the anger fading away in Sirius' eyes. 

_I was afraid_, Sirius didn't need to say, and when he finally looked away from Harry it was to include Malfoy in his worried gaze. He pulled Harry into a rough hug and then, after a pause, moved forward and grabbed Malfoy too. "Next time," he said, "You listen to us, ok?" Harry nodded, shrugging slightly as he saw Malfoy looking at him with wide, confused eyes. 

"Ok," Malfoy said. 

Sirius released them and, with a final parental stare, shut the door firmly behind him. They listened to Padfoot bound away, and the werewolf's welcoming yip. They stared at each other in silence. 

"I think I have werewolf slobber on my arm," Malfoy said, his voice strained. Harry looked at the bandages that stuck out from under Malfoy's ripped right sleeve; they were indeed a bit damp looking, and covered in earth. 

"Oh," he said. "Er." 

Malfoy's mouth twisted into a grimace. "I guess that wasn't such a brilliant idea, after all." 

Harry shook his head. They stared at the ground. 

"I," Malfoy said. He blinked rapidly, and looked up at Harry with an almost desperate expression on his face. A bit of terror still lingered in his eyes. "I," he said again, and bit his lip. "I'm going to get cleaned up." He turned away quickly, trudging up the stairs with his arm clutched against his chest. 

Harry stared after him, brain working frantically. _Malfoy's **fine**,_ his mind insisted. _He was just knocked to the ground, no harm done._ So why was Malfoy obviously _not_ fine? He stepped towards the stairs, hesitantly, and stopped. _He wanted to talk last week. We've talked a whole lot since then. Maybe not about serious stuff, but ..._

He made his way upstairs slowly. The tap was running in the bathroom, the light in the bedroom on. He cocked his head as he approached their room. No sound came from inside; the bathroom, then. 

Harry knocked, and when there was a muffled response on the other side of the door, he swung it open. The door hit Malfoy on the hip before he could back away, and he glared at Harry as Harry crowded into the small space with him. Steam rose from the tap, but Malfoy didn't seem to have made any attempt to pull the bandages on his arm off, although he had stripped off his jumper and was standing shirtless in the tiny bathroom. Harry blinked, distracted for a moment by the angles of Malfoy's hipbones protruding from the old trousers that hung low on his hips, his skin nearly translucent. The steam had filled the bathroom quickly, and in the humidity Harry could smell the faint scent of Malfoy's sweat, and below that, a faint spice that Harry thought must be Malfoy's scent, the smell of him. Harry felt dizzy. _All the steam_, he thought. 

"What do you want?" Malfoy asked irritably. Harry jerked his gaze back up to Malfoy's face, and blushed. Was he really just staring at another boy's – not _just_ another boy's, but Malfoy's – stomach? 

Thankfully, Malfoy didn't seem to have noticed. He was staring at Harry, frowning. "Come up to have a good laugh?" he demanded. "'Oh la, another scary monster that ickle Draco couldn't handle, boo hoo.' Just leave me alone, Potter." 

"I came up to see if you were ok," Harry said. He wished that he hadn't closed the door behind him when he came in. The steam was making it a bit hard to breathe, and Malfoy's eyes upon him weren't making it any easier. "So, are you?" 

"Fine," Malfoy bit out. "Just _peachy_." He turned away, fumbling at the bandages on his arm. 

"Oh, come off it," Harry said. "I didn't do anything. Why not just tell me what's wrong?" 

Malfoy's hand stilled, and he moved it carefully away from his other arm, resting his weight heavily on the edge of the sink. Harry watched the curve of Malfoy's spine as he swayed, the ridges of his shoulder blades, the fine hair at the base of his neck, and swallowed heavily. When Malfoy began to speak, quietly, spitting his words out, he had to think for a moment to figure out what the hell Malfoy was talking about now. 

"You wouldn't understand. And I was stupid to think that you would. Perfect bloody Potter, how would you know what it felt like to be so – so disgusting? So filthy that any Dark Creature comes running just to see how rotten you smell. How foul you are. So excuse me. I had forgotten I was the 'evil Slytherin' for a bit." His voice rose with every sentence, until he was nearly shouting. He shoved himself away from the counter and spun to look Harry in the eye, so close that their foreheads nearly touched. Harry's eyes crossed. 

"No matter what I do," Malfoy growled. "I can't make you think any better of me. Oh, how fun, planning pranks with a Slytherin, but we've also got to obsess about what he does in his spare time with a boy whose name you don't even know." Harry blinked. 

"What are – ?" he managed before Malfoy cut him off again, flinging his left arm up against Harry's collarbone, forcing him backwards against the door. He leaned in close, and Harry sucked in a breath. 

"It isn't any of your business, Potter. Just don't even bother, alright?" 

Harry paused, sucking in a lungful of air. Malfoy was definitely too close for comfort. "Malfoy," he said as evenly as he could. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about or what that boy has to do with anything." 

Malfoy blinked at him. 

"It has to do with ..." He trailed off, and stared down at his arm, the one that had Harry pinned, for a long moment before slowly pulling away. "It doesn't matter." 

Harry remained where he was, frozen against the door. His fingers pressed hard into the grain of the wood, and as he watched Malfoy, the other boy seemed to shrink into himself, becoming smaller as the seconds passed in silence between them. His mind was nearly bludgeoning itself, trying to figure out what was going on, what was wrong, what he should say, what he should do. He moved, slowly, bracing himself against the cold porcelain of the sink. Malfoy's arms crossed protectively around himself, and he stared down at the floor, his face pink. He seemed to be moving in the same slow motions that Harry was caught in, frozen in the panic and uncertainty of the moment. Harry caught him around the shoulders, as surprised as Malfoy looked that his hands had found their way there. He steered him to the toilet, seating him on the closed seat. He sat down himself on the edge of the claw foot tub and reached carefully for Malfoy's burned arm, cradling it in both of his hands. Malfoy's hand shook. 

They sat in silence as Harry gingerly unwrapped the bandages from Malfoy's arm, peeling layer off of layer as he unwound strips of gauze, laying Malfoy's skin bare. Malfoy's arm was limp, unresisting, and he didn't look up as Harry reached behind himself for the bath's tap, turning on the hot water there instead of releasing Malfoy's hand in order to get some of the water from the sink, which was still running. He groped for a washcloth, soaking it in the warm water that spilled from the tap. Malfoy sighed as Harry brushed it against the burn that now reached past his elbow, moving it methodically, lightly over the skin. 

"I think it's looking better," he ventured. The steam seemed to make the words linger in the air, and he wrapped the cloth around Malfoy's wrist, his thumb making unconscious circles on top of it. Malfoy stared at his hand. Harry stared at Malfoy. 

"Have you really never known?" Malfoy asked, his voice so soft that Harry almost didn't hear him speak. He paused, and in the space between breaths Malfoy shook his head, cutting off Harry's first, impossible thought. "It doesn't matter." 

"It does," Harry replied, and Malfoy raised his head. Smiled. 

A real smile. The way he had smiled at Snape. His eyes as soft as Harry had ever seen, looking up from beneath his eyelashes with his lips twisted just a little bit, the sharp angles of his cheekbones smoothed beneath the brilliance, the surprising sweetness of that smile, and dimly, as if from very far away, Harry felt his heart clench and then release him, and he leaned forward and laid his forehead against Malfoy's, his fingers still wrapped around Malfoy's wrist. 

"It's going to be alright," he whispered, and meant it. 

------------------------- 

Padfoot lay with his nose between his paws, waiting. The moon had disappeared behind the trees about an hour ago, and Moony grew more restless with every moment. Its heavy paws hit the ground hard as it paced, running up to Padfoot every few minutes to nip at him and then dash away. Sirius was exhausted. 

After the incident with Harry and Draco, the rest of the night had actually passed pretty peacefully. They had chased a few Gins, Moony had caught a rabbit, and they had wandered down to the beach beyond the trees to play among the boulders that dotted the jagged shoreline. But worry had nearly paralysed Padfoot, made it impossible to follow the werewolf's graceful run. The grey along Moony's muzzle and eyes had become all the more apparent as the moon rose higher in the sky. The limp in Moony's gait had been impossible to ignore. Worst had been the ragged breathing that didn't even seem to bother the werewolf, the grating of its lungs that Remus had tried so hard to conceal in the last few days. 

Remus must think he was stupid. That he wouldn't notice how slowly Remus moved these days, how his hand would clutch at his chest as if a sudden pain had struck him. Could Remus think that Sirius wouldn't know the way he coughed in his sleep, that he was sick after nearly every meal? What was the point of hiding those things? 

He harrumphed to himself as Moony bounded up and paced a tight circle around him, nudging at him with its nose, whining deep in its throat. Its skin would be feeling tight by this time, ill-fitting around its body, and it shook its body hard as if to prove Sirius' estimations. It stretched its legs one by one, trying to shake out its discomfort. 

Padfoot lifted his head, trying to gauge the light. The moon was far beyond his sight, but it should be setting soon. Remus wouldn't be fully coherent until the sun actually rose, but in the time between was the best opportunity to get him fed and cleaned up. With the sunrise, he'd be fully lucid but the complete return to his human form would leave him exhausted. With the moon gone and the sun yet to appear, he would be in almost a halfway state, and more active than he would be for several days after the full moon. 

Moony stiffened mid-stride. Its head swivelled towards the forest, one paw raised. Padfoot got to his feet, moving towards the werewolf. It moaned as he approached, a pitiful sound that was still more animal than human. Padfoot whimpered sympathetically, nosing along Moony's side to offer some comfort. The change from werewolf to human was much less dangerous to be near than the change from human to werewolf; at this stage, Moony was mainly confused, uncertain of what was happening to it. 

Moony sank to the ground, paws arranged haphazardly around its body. It looked up at Sirius pleadingly as the first shudders rocked it, the first bones broke. It cried as its spine twisted and snapped under the transformation, shuddering its way back into its human body. Remus keened softly and curled in on himself, and in a heartbeat Sirius had transformed too and gathered him close. 

Remus struggled for a quick instant before he recognized Sirius' scent, and he relaxed into Sirius' arms, making wordless noises. He pushed his nose into Sirius' chest, snuffling deeply as one hand came up to clutch at Sirius' shoulder. Sirius lifted him easily, whispering words of comfort. 

He walked slowly back to the Farmhouse, wincing as sore muscles announced themselves to him. He'd never be in as good health as he had been before Azkaban, never be able to keep up with Moony on their all-night romps as well as he used to. But he could still carry Remus, he thought grimly. He could at least do that much. 

The house was quiet as he let them in, shifting Remus in his arms gently in order to grasp the doorknob. Dawn's light was just beginning to filter in through the windows, and Sirius sighed. He had never liked the pallor of early morning light all that much, and the daylight simply looked grey to him. Remus loved it, loved watching the sun rise and feeling inevitable exhaustion creep through his bones. It had been something that Lily and Remus had shared, in those days that Sirius remembered only hazily, when Lily was heavy with Harry and slept erratically. Sirius would often wake, when they had all slept at the Potters', to find Remus' sleeping spot empty and the werewolf himself sitting out on the narrow balcony with Lily, both of them wrapped in thick blankets and sharing a jug of grapefruit juice between them as the sun made its entrance into the day. 

Harry and Draco's door was open upstairs, and Sirius spared a moment to pop his head in and check on them. He didn't know how traumatizing or icky it would be to see their former professor naked, but it was still better to make sure they had actually slept. Draco was more tangled in blankets than Sirius had thought possible, his badly rebandaged arm flung above his head, the only limb free. Harry's mouth was wide open, his hair spread in a halo around his head, snoring. Sirius smiled, easing his way back into the hallway. He looked down to meet Remus' eyes, open and staring at him. Remus blinked, and sighed heavily. It was a contented sound. 

As he made his way down the hallway, Remus' hand tightening around his shoulder made him pause. He looked down again, and saw that Remus was smiling, his eyes nearly closed. "Bath?" he rasped. Sirius nodded. 

The bathroom was at the end of the hallway, directly across from the doorway of Remus and Sirius' room. It was small, with two windows and a Muggle mirror that Sirius had demanded responses from for two days before realizing that it didn't talk. The bath was his favourite part; it stood up on elegant claw feet with a soft curtain around it, Charmed so that the water never splashed on the floor. 

"Can you sit up?" he asked Remus as he edged into the bathroom, turning to the side so that he didn't bump Remus into the walls. Remus nodded, and Sirius set him down carefully on the toilet while he ran the tap. Remus swayed slightly, and Sirius laughed as he ran the water over his fingers, checking the temperature and watching the tub slowly fill. 

"And look, I'm already set for a bath," Remus said vaguely, gesturing at his nakedness. Sirius nodded. 

"I noticed," he said. Remus sat up, moving his legs carefully, as though he wasn't quite sure they were going to do what he wanted to do, shifting himself into the tub rather than try and stand. He settled in with a happy sigh, and then opened his eyes to glance at Sirius. 

"Aren't you coming in?" 

Sirius laughed, startled, a little thrill running up his spine. He pulled his robes off quickly, glancing at himself in the mirror. He had gained weight in the past year, and his hair was shorter than it had been since he had been disowned by his family. His tattoos were less stark now that they weren't stretched thinly across bone, and he rubbed a hand over them, obscurely comforted by their cloaking presence. He turned to look at Remus, whose head was tipped back and eyes were shut. "Budge up," he said. 

Remus chuckled and moved forward obligingly until his knees nearly touched his chest, and Sirius slid in behind him, his legs on either side of Remus' body. Remus settled into him, back against Sirius' chest, laying his head against Sirius' collarbone. The tub wasn't nearly big enough for the both of them, but as Remus wiggled contentedly against him Sirius found that he didn't give a whit. He dipped his hands into the steaming water and brought palmfuls of water up to Remus' chest, rubbing his fingers over his wet skin. Remus arched under his hands, baring his throat and Sirius took the hint. He moved his head down to lay warm, open-mouthed kisses along Remus' neck, nipping at the soft spot just under his jaw that always made Remus squirm. Remus made soft noises in his throat, pushing back against Sirius' body. His hand stroked Sirius' leg in lazy circles, the only part of Sirius' body that he could easily reach. 

Sirius pushed his hands through the water, stroking in long motions over every part of Remus' body he could touch. He rubbed hard over the muscles in Remus' thighs, massaging the cramps and knots out and pushing Remus up slightly to get to his back. His tongue stuck out, just a little bit, as he concentrated on what he was doing. Remus was boneless against him, his head propped on his knees as he sighed appreciatively as Sirius pressed hard against the nerves right above Remus' tailbone. He sighed heavily as Sirius guided him to his previous position, held up by Sirius' supporting weight, and Sirius lifted his hands out of the water for a moment to grab the soap. He lathered it between his hands slowly, kissing the back of Remus' head as he smoothed his soapy palms over Remus' chest. He felt Remus' laughter against his stomach. 

It was so strange, Sirius mused as Remus turned his face up, shifting against him as he bit gently at Sirius' mouth; how well he knew the scent of Remus' skin, the way that he shook his hair out of his eyes, the shape of his elegant, perpetually ink-stained fingers, and yet how new everything seemed when they touched. Every stolen kiss, every gasp against his mouth, even the simple slide of warm skin against his own was startling, beautiful. They sat for hours without speaking, anticipating the thoughts and needs of the other before anything could be asked, Remus a solid presence next to him, full of random laughter and smiles that said _I know exactly what you mean._ Sirius hadn't had a smile like that for quite some time. 

But when Remus moved against him in the night, biting at his fingers to keep quiet as if they hadn't cast the strongest Charms they knew to ward against curious ears; when Sirius uncovered a sensitive spot on the inside of Remus' thigh and Remus squeaked rather than laughed; when Remus said those words he didn't think he'd ever hear again from anybody, it was so new and frightening that he shook for hours and held Remus close to him as though he had dreamed the entire thing. 

And Remus would hold him, like he was doing now as he turned around and raised himself onto his hands and knees to settle onto Sirius' lap, and Remus raised his hands to cup Sirius' face and lift his chin up to kiss him, and Remus' mouth was soft and his face scratchy, and Remus sighed into his mouth as he lowered himself, slowly, slowly, and a bathtub was really a horrible and restricting place to do this, Sirius thought, and water was no lubricant at all and neither was a bit of spit, and ... 

Then it was all light and heat and Remus' breath against his face, Remus' fingers still buried in his hair, and Sirius whispered, "Yes." 

-------------------- 

Sirius crept downstairs. Every bone in his body ached. His head spun. He was damp and nearly sick from hunger. He thought he had never been happier in his entire life. 

Remus had passed out moments after towelling himself dry, and Sirius had carried him to their room and tucked him in. The sun would be rising soon, and Remus was cleaned up and his. Harry and Draco were still asleep – he had closed their door on his way down, and had watched the shadows vanish slowly from their faces as the first light of the day crept into their room, some unnameable feeling settling itself deep into his chest. He rubbed his fingers over the spot, just to the left and below his heart, as he stepped onto the staircase, and smiled. The pallor of dawn seemed to him to be the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

He rounded the banister into the living room and nearly made it to the kitchen before he saw the figure, standing silently beside the bookshelves, staring out into the morning. It absorbed the light and Sirius groped for his wand even as he realized that it was upstairs on the table next to the bed, even as the figure turned towards him. 

"Snape," he snarled. Snape's lip curled, and he paused. "What are you doing here?" 

Snape drew in a long breath, his back stiff and his jaw set. "Simply checking up on things," he said silkily. It had to be Sirius' imagination that his voice shook, just a bit. "Dumbledore hooked your Floo up for the evening, in case there was ... an incident, despite the perfectly brewed potion that I brought last week." 

Sirius' teeth ground together. "He was fine, Snape. Everything is fine. _Thanks_ for your concern." 

Snape only studied him, his bony arms crossed over his chest. The silence lay heavily between them. Snape's lips twitched, and his head tilted forward, breaking eye contact. 

"I have brought something for Lupin," he said softly. "A book that I believe he might find useful." His hand slipped into his sleeve, and Sirius tensed, but Snape only withdrew a slender volume, its binding cracked with age. 

"I hadn't wanted to bring it, before." He paused, looking up at Sirius again. "But I think that it's what he is looking for." 

"How would you know?" Sirius sneered, storming forward and snatching the book away from Snape, staring down at Snape's oily face from his greater height. Snape's face was full of contempt. 

"I see he hasn't let you in on his secret," he whispered. "What a pity. Hardly a surprise. I see he doesn't trust you any more than when he thought you were the spy." 

"He never thought I was – " 

Snape cut him off smoothly. "Interesting, isn't it, that he trusts me, over you?" Sirius's breath caught. Snape's lip curled, his expression triumphant. "Out of my way, Black, I want to see _my_ godson before I leave." 

He brushed past Sirius and was gone. Sirius felt frozen, his fingers numb where they had clenched around the book Snape had brought. He blinked rapidly, tried to get air back into his lungs. He turned, mechanically, and made his way to the den, sitting heavily on the worn couch. He didn't feel it sink underneath him, and he stared at the records that were still scattered around the floor and didn't recognize them, barely noticed light slowly filled the room, suffocating him. He sat, silently, until the sun rose high into the sky, and another full moon vanished into memory. 


	8. Casualties of War: Happy Goddamn Birthda...

**Casualties of War **by hans bekhart 

Casualties of War: Happy Goddamn Birthday 

In which Remus fools himself, Sirius is sullen, Harry grins like an idiot, and Draco remembers birthdays and demands tea.  
  
Notes and Warnings: Cookies, candy and love to my betas, lildove42, aralias, frogslayr and gryffinjack. You guys are way too cool for school. If this chapter feels a little weird, it's because I had to cut it into two parts because of length. Draco really ate my brain on this one.

* * *

It was three days since the full moon, and Remus was feeling just fine, thanks for asking. Better than fine, in fact. Other than a slight stiffness in Sirius' behaviour during the last few days, everything was just dandy. He had woken up a few hours past sunrise, feeling better after a transformation than he had in years. It was more than the sex, more than the company, and Remus thought that perhaps it was, simply, sheer relief. He hadn't stopped believing that it would happen again – the halted change, the agony that made his usual transformations seem weak in comparison – that he would die this time, or worse, be left crippled and helpless. When he had woken up whole, the sun well above the horizon, the feeling had been indescribable. 

Sirius hadn't felt the same way, it seemed. When Remus had come downstairs, feeling remarkably refreshed considering that it was early enough that Harry and Draco weren't awake yet, he had found Sirius sitting in the shuttered den, slouched low into the lumpy couch with the record player unravelling a spidery, haunting fairy tale. 

"I didn't know you liked Tom Waits," Remus had said, sitting carefully down beside him so that their sides pressed together. 

He had been too addled at the time to think anything of it when Sirius only pulled away and grunted, "I don't. Put it on because he looked like a crazy person, on the album cover." 

In the days that followed, however, as Sirius kept pulling away and didn't touch him and shrugged more than he talked, it nagged in Remus' mind. 

The sensible voice in his head bothered him when he didn't pursue the matter, didn't annoy Sirius into telling him what was wrong, barely even asked about it. The last time he had ignored Sirius acting weird, he had told himself that Sirius was just being an idiot and if something was on his mind he could bloody well say something. But Sirius never had, and Halloween of 1981 came and went, taking everyone that Remus cared about with it. Despite past experiences, Remus still found it easier to ignore that voice; to pretend that he was too busy with Harry and Draco, and the spell books that Severus had left him, to bother with Sirius' tantrums. He had his secret, after all, that he hid from Sirius, and whatever was bothering Sirius was most likely connected to that. Remus would gladly admit he was unwilling to be honest about ... that. And besides, he really did have his hands full with Harry and Draco, as he told himself time and again. 

Remus couldn't help smiling as a pair of grey eyes followed him as he moved from one end of the kitchen to the other, melting cheese onto their sandwiches with his wand, gathering up tea bags and mugs and napkins. Draco was still damp from his shower, and looked quite young as he perched on the counter, perpetually in Remus' way, and watched him fix lunch. He had been following Remus around most of the morning, peppering him with questions, observations, and gossip about his classmates. In the space of an hour, Remus had learned that Blaise Zabini going out with a Hufflepuff, Terry Boot had smuggled Muggle cigarettes into Hogwarts and that two sixth-year Ravenclaws had gotten sick smoking them, and Millicent Bulstrode had had a crush on Snape since second year. 

They took lunch outside. Draco flung himself onto the grass before Remus could summon chairs, so Remus levered himself carefully onto the ground, enjoying the feel of the grass on his ankles. He ignored the ache that sprang into his hips, a bit of fresh agony on top of the quiver in his torso, his system still recovering from a bout of sickness earlier in the morning, before anyone else had risen. Harry and Sirius' shadows dappled the long grass as they soared above it, chasing each other and floating bits of rock scattered in the air. He could hear Harry laughing, and when he looked up, Harry's head was thrown back, his teeth showing as he grinned, his words unintelligible to the two on the ground as he shouted to Sirius. 

Remus looked back to find Draco also watching Harry. The boy's eyes flickered back down as he noticed Remus looking at him, and he flushed slightly. Remus smiled beatifically at him, and after a moment, Draco bit his lip and returned the smile. 

"You're so weird, Remus," he said, and turned his attention to his sandwich. 

Remus laughed, bringing his mug of tea up to his lips. "Well," he said, which really wasn't a response at all, but Draco's smile widened regardless. 

Remus watched out of the corner of his eye as Draco ate. _It would have been admirable,_ he thought, _to see how well he's adapted to losing the use of an arm, except he shouldn't have lost it in the first place._ When Draco had arrived at the Farmhouse, the burn had stopped about halfway up his forearm. Now that it extended far past his elbow, Draco had lost most of the ability to bend or flex his arm. It sat unmoving in his lap while he meticulously ate the crusts off of his sandwich. 

"Are you still having nightmares?" Remus asked quietly. 

Draco looked up, startled, and shook his head. "You?" 

Remus nodded. "Sometimes." 

"Does Sirius know?" 

"I don't think so." 

They sat in silence for a moment, and then Draco picked his sandwich back up and began to nibble again, chasing his small bites with sips of tea. 

"How are your fingers?" 

Draco lifted his injured arm and held the hand out, palm up. His fingers trembled and slowly squeezed together. Draco's expression was pained, but he opened the fist back up grimly before settling it back into his lap. 

The burn had grown significantly three nights ago, seeming to coincide with the stress of being attacked by a werewolf, coupled with whatever else had happened that night, which Draco refused to tell him. Maybe, Remus mused, whatever curse had seemingly wormed its way into Draco's system was encouraged by traumatic events or powerful emotions. He'd have to Floo Severus about it, he decided. 

"Tell me the gillyweed story." 

Remus choked on his tea. 

He levelled a hard stare at Draco, who was beaming innocently at him, and suddenly Remus understood why so many his former students had believed that the young Slytherin was evil. Remus shook his head. "I don't think so." 

Draco rolled his eyes, but seemed to take it in stride. "Potter really is an idiot, you know," he said conspiratorially. "He doesn't believe me about you and Sirius. After we went into your room the other night, he was wondering about why you hadn't transfigured separate beds." 

Remus frowned. "Sirius hasn't spoken to him about it, then?" And then, "How do you know?" 

Draco flushed, grinning. "I used to see you and Professor Snape together sometimes, during third year, and it seemed sort of obvious that there was something else between you, and when I came here ... and wasn't Sirius holding your hand in the hospital?" 

"I can't really remember," Remus said absently, glancing up into the sky. Sirius spotted him and waved furiously. Remus lifted a hand in response, smiling, and then turned it around to crook his fingers in a 'come here' gesture. Sirius pulled up on his broom, nearly causing a collision as Harry barrelled towards him, diving into a Wronski Feint only at the last second. 

Harry reached them first, tumbling off his broom, his colour high from the wind. He grinned madly at them, diving for the plate of sandwiches. Draco looked appalled as Harry pushed an entire half of a sandwich into his mouth. "Where _did_ you learn a trick like that?" Draco asked icily. "I hope it was Weasley. Or are Muggles really that foul?" 

Harry, his mouth full of sandwich, didn't bother with a verbal reply; he simply pushed Draco over. Draco sputtered. Sirius laughed, seating himself sedately on the ground next to Harry. He didn't look at Remus as he plucked a pear from the tray and studied it carefully. 

"So what have you two been talking about?" he asked Draco. 

"Remus was just about to tell me the gillyweed story," Draco answered promptly. 

Sirius smirked. "Oh, I'm sure he was." 

Remus coughed slightly. "Actually, there was something I've been meaning to do," he said, withdrawing a thin volume from his robe, noticing how Sirius avoided looking at it. The two boys regarded it with vague curiosity. 

Remus had been surprised when Sirius had given him the spell book, and even more so when he had said it came from Snape, who had apparently appeared at the Farmhouse while Remus was sleeping the full moon off. Draco had confirmed this; Snape had woken him at sunrise and given him a scarf woven with tiny beaded Charms, presumably for protection. Harry, like Remus, had slept through the visit. 

When Remus had realized what book Severus had brought, he had hidden it away from Sirius immediately. Severus had been right; it was exactly what he was looking for. And there was really no reason for Sirius to know why; it would only make things even more tense than they were already. He would tell Sirius when he was ready, when the time was right. 

Draco reached for the book, but Remus pulled it out of reach without thinking. He smiled at Draco's confused frown, a little irritated with himself that he was defensive even with the boys. "I already know the spell, there's no need for you to look at it. All I wanted to ask is if you two would feel comfortable with ... a little extra protection." 

"Protection from what?" Draco wanted to know. 

Harry flicked him on the arm. "Voldemort, I'm guessing. Right, Professor?" he said, and then looked embarrassed that he had called Remus by his old title, _again_. Draco flinched at the sound of Voldemort's name. 

Remus nodded, smiling. "He's been very quiet lately ... there haven't been any other attacks that we know of since he was ... resurrected, other than the one against you, Draco. However, obviously, we are still worried. So I was hoping that you two wouldn't mind if I put an extra protection Charm on you?" 

They shrugged, nearly in unison. 

Remus smiled. "Well, in that case." 

He tapped his wand against his own chest, and then laid the point over his heart. "_Mors Tutela,_" he whispered softly. 

Harry and Draco watched silently. Their looks of mild fascination changed to amazement as Remus slowly, carefully pulled his wand away from his body, and strings of red light trailed afterwards. Remus gritted his teeth as he pulled them to arm's length, gathering the taffy-like strands of energy in his other hand. They coalesced slowly, spinning around his fingers until they formed a sphere that floated above his palm. 

"Pretty," Draco said appreciatively. 

Remus could feel Sirius' eyes, heavy upon him. He didn't look; couldn't look, for fear of Sirius being able to see the spell's true nature in his face. He studied, instead, the way that the light from his soul played over the faces of the two it was meant to protect. He smiled, and, raising the sphere level with his face, blew softly. Draco squeaked as the light coated them, and Harry laughed helplessly, as though it tickled. 

Remus sighed, unconsciously rubbing at the spot he had just touched his wand to. It twinged, and it would probably be an annoyance for the rest of the day, but as the Charm took effect, the light vanishing into the boys' skin, he felt part of the weight on his heart lift, just a bit. No matter what would come, he had done this much at least. 

-------------------------

By dinnertime, Remus and Sirius had at least managed to look each other in the eye a few times, mostly whilst cooly discussing what was going to happen tomorrow: whether the Floo had been hooked up as planned and whether Molly had bought what they had asked her to get. In truth, Remus couldn't bring himself to care very much about Sirius' emotional constipation, and as the day wore on they only became more and more irritated with each other, to the point that even Harry noticed, over dinner. 

Harry kicked Malfoy's ankle underneath the dinner table. Malfoy, a forkful of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth, glared at him. He nodded in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner towards Remus and then Sirius, and Malfoy rolled his eyes at him and went back to eating. Harry kicked him again; Malfoy kicked back. 

"Children, _please,_" Sirius sighed heavily in a very put-upon tone, before taking the opportunity to kick them both. Remus put his face in his hands, shaking with silent laughter. Harry grinned while Malfoy took his revenge, trading kicks with Sirius under the table. For the first time in three days, when Harry had woken up to see Malfoy sitting up on his bed, fingering the Charmed scarf that Snape had given him while Harry slept, the air between all of them was comfortable. And, Harry recognized suddenly, he felt like part of a family. He could tell how stupid the smile that broke out on his face was by the look that Malfoy gave him, before he smiled back. 

Harry and Malfoy had gone to sit outside after dinner, silently working on their summer essays. Harry could sense Malfoy sneaking glances at him from time to time, but only smiled to himself and kept working. Malfoy gnawed on his quill, his brow furrowed. Ink dripped unnoticed onto his hand. After a time, he set his books aside and wrapped his good arm around his knees, staring up at the sky. The moon was just beginning to show its face again, high above them, and Harry looked up too. A pair of Gins stood by the lake, looking mournfully at where they sat with fragrant mugs of cocoa and fruit that had been forced upon them when they had excused themselves from dinner. Harry ate an apple thoughtfully, counting the stars. 

"Potter," Malfoy said, breaking the long silence. Harry looked over to him. Malfoy wasn't looking at him; his gaze was still fixed to the night sky. "What time is it?" 

Harry set his quill down and pulled up the sleeve of his jumper to check his watch. "Er, wow. I hadn't noticed we'd been out here so long. It's a little after midnight." 

Malfoy looked satisfied, for some reason. "That's what I thought." He turned to stare expectantly at Harry, who blinked. 

Malfoy frowned. "You do know what day it is now, don't you?" he said slowly. 

Harry rolled his eyes up, thinking. "No," he said at last. 

"It's July the thirty-first," Malfoy said, his lip curling into something that wasn't quite a sneer. 

Harry blinked again. "Oh." He blushed, looking down at his feet. "Oh yeah." 

Malfoy huffed, but didn't say anything, and they sat in silence. 

Abruptly, Harry felt something warm brush against his hand. He looked over at Malfoy, startled. Malfoy's expression was hidden behind his hair, but Harry could see those familiar hectic spots appear above his cheekbones. Slowly, cautiously, he felt fingers push in underneath his, curling around his palm. 

"Happy birthday, you prat," Malfoy said in a low voice. 

Harry shifted his hand so that their fingers laced together. "Thanks." 

-------------------------

The morning of Harry Potter's fifteenth birthday dawned a dismal, wet grey. It was sunny in the Farmhouse's warm weather bubble, however, and Harry had nearly twisted off the bed in his sleep, trying to get away from encroaching sunbeams. By the time he finally awoke, his head was neatly wedged between the bed and the wall, and he wasn't entirely sure where his legs had ended up. 

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. His limbs moved sluggishly to untangle themselves from each other, and he looked around in bemusement. Malfoy was curled into himself on the other bed, the sheets twisted around him as always, his face hidden behind the arm flung up beside it. 

A year ago Harry had been at the Dursleys', waiting for owls from a godfather he barely knew, hiding his cakes and presents underneath the floorboards again. Who could have possibly imagined he'd wake up sharing a room with Draco Malfoy, of all people, and living with his godfather and the professor who had been so important to him in third year? 

Harry slipped his glasses onto his face and pushed himself to his feet. One step, two steps, and then he was standing with his knees pressed up against Malfoy's bed, grinning down at the other boy's sleeping form and feeling like more than a bit of an idiot. 

"Malfoy," he called softly, and reached down to tug Malfoy's ankle, which was pulled up nearly to his chest, back and forth. Malfoy tensed, but only grabbed his pillow with his good hand and shoved it over his face. 

"Shove off, Potter," he growled. 

"Get up, you berk. I'm hungry." 

The pillow was peeled back slowly, revealing a tuft of mussed hair and a single, malevolent eye. "Make me my breakfast, and I'll get up." 

Harry folded his arms and did his best to look unyielding. 

"Make me some tea," Malfoy amended, his mouth quirked. "And let's play Quodpot today." 

Harry beamed and stuck out a hand. "That sounds alright." 

Malfoy allowed himself to be hauled to his feet, straightening his sleeves imperiously. "I need to get dressed," he said haughtily, and pulled his t-shirt off as if changing in front of each other was something they did normally. 

All of the blood in Harry's body – except for a bit that we'll just ignore – rushed to his face, and he turned away quickly, hoping that Malfoy hadn't noticed. "G-good idea," he stammered, hunting around near his bed for his jeans and a clean shirt. Malfoy pushed his pyjama bottoms off and slid quickly into his trousers. Harry did his best not to look, pulling his shirt down over his head and hoping that his blush would be gone by the time the shirt was settled around his torso. It wasn't, of course. 

Malfoy surveyed him silently, his hands on his hips. "You wore that shirt yesterday." 

Harry rolled his eyes, obscurely relieved. "It's my birthday. I think I can have a little leeway on how clean my clothes are." 

Malfoy shook his head decisively. "No. At least not around me. And I'm going to kick your ass at Quodpot." 

He turned away and Harry nearly reeled, the strangeness of the moment over almost before it had began. 

They left their room laughing, pushing a bit to see who went through the door first. Beauty before age, Malfoy said, until Harry pointed out that Malfoy was older than he was. This had earned him a light shove as he managed to squeeze past Malfoy and gain the hallway first. If either one of them noticed that Malfoy's hands lingered on Harry's shoulders a little longer than necessary as he jumped past Harry and onto the stairs, they didn't say anything. 

"I've changed my mind. You're going to make me tea, and kippers and toast with strawberry jam and –" 

Malfoy's breath cut off with a soft huff and Harry collided with his shoulder. 

"Malfoy, what – ?" 

That was when he caught sight of who was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. 

"Happy birthday, Harry!" Ron and Hermione cried. 

A warm glow flared inside of him at the sight of his two best friends, and he moved forward, grinning stupidly as he took the stairs two at a time. Hermione immediately threw herself onto him in a hug that nearly knocked him flat. 

"Surprise," Ron grinned, when she released him. Harry couldn't stop smiling. "Sirius and Lupin arranged it." 

"Harry, we've been so worried about you! I was so glad when Ron – Ron actually used the telephone correctly, did you hear? – called and told me that Professor Lupin was all right and that you were going to live with him and Sirius but then he was saying his dad had said that _Malfoy_ was going to be there too and _why_ would Dumbledore ever decide to – " 

"What are you hiding there, Malfoy?" 

Harry turned, momentarily mystified by Ron's sharp tone. Hermione was startled into silence, her monologue cut off so abruptly that Harry almost thought he heard her teeth click together. 

Malfoy was still standing where Harry had left him, one hand on the banister, his right hand hidden behind his back. Harry's throat closed. Malfoy's face was perfectly expressionless, his silver eyes wide and blank. He blinked twice as Harry, Ron and Hermione's attention turned abruptly to him, and when his chin lifted Harry almost groaned with frustration. 

"It's not _money,_ Weasel," Malfoy sneered. "Don't get your knickers in a twist." His expression had transformed, and with vague alarm Harry realized that he recognized it, and could differentiate it from Malfoy's normal sneering demeanour. When Malfoy was feeling superior, when he had said something cruel that had really hit its mark, his upper lip curled and his eyebrows rose. As Ron called Malfoy a word he certainly wouldn't have used around his mother, Malfoy's nose wrinkled and his eyes narrowed, and suddenly Harry realized that this was Malfoy on the defensive. 

"Ron," Harry said, and when Ron looked at him his mind went blank. 

Unfortunately, Malfoy seized the opportunity before Harry could even begin to imagine a defence of Malfoy that Ron wouldn't recoil in horror from, mincing down the steps with his hand still behind his back, until he was only a few feet away from the trio. Hermione glowered at him. 

"Don't worry, Potter," Malfoy said loftily. "I'm sure he wasn't going to say anything clever enough to actually hurt my _ickle feewings_." 

Harry turned around to fully face Malfoy, stepping forward until they were nearly nose to nose. Malfoy's chin lifted, and he swayed forward, almost imperceptibly, and Harry caught the warm scent of him, of bedclothes and sleep and boy. 

"Malfoy," he growled. "Behave." 

Malfoy recoiled instantly, his cheeks flushing as if Harry had slapped him hard across the face, rather than say two short words. 

"Don't – don't you _dare,_" Malfoy hissed. "Speak to me that way." 

To Harry's astonishment, Malfoy pushed by him roughly, hitting his shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him backwards, and passed by Ron and Hermione without even a second glance. Harry watched him go, feeling his mouth hang open but unable to really do anything about it. 

"What was _that_ about?" Ron asked. 

Harry shrugged. 

"What happened to his hand?" Hermione asked quietly. 

Harry looked at her, and hesitated. "I think maybe we should go in the den or outside or something, before I tell you. It's a long story." 

-------------------------

When Draco Malfoy stomped through the kitchen and out the door with hardly a pause, Arthur Weasley couldn't help but feel a bit concerned. 

He had felt the tension in the household as soon as they had arrived at Remus' house, which had been connected to the Floo network for the next day or two. As soon as they had stood up in the cramped den, coughing the ashes from the rarely used Floo from their lungs, Arthur had noticed the hard look around Remus' eyes that signalled there was a problem. 

Sirius had been as chatty and cheerful as ever, his laughter only a little bit fake as they arranged presents, enlarged the birthday cake and put up a little bit of bunting, but Arthur had been well-trained by Molly to pick up the most subtle of signals: the way Remus seemed to touch the things around him as little as possible, the way he made tea instead of conversation, even when Hermione Granger was fairly following him around, trying to engage him in conversation about some undoubtably enormous book of obscure dark spells that she had found recently. 

"Has there been any word from Hagrid?" 

Sirius's voice broke through Arthur's thoughts. Arthur lifted his chin and accepted his third cup of tea from Remus. "Hmm?" 

Sirius repeated the question, and Arthur sighed. "It hasn't been going very well. They made contact with the Gurg, and negotiations were proceeding quite smoothly, but the last we've heard from Hagrid and Maxime is that there's already a new Gurg, and he isn't quite as friendly." 

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, his expression impatient. "We should have known this was a bad idea. What else, is there anything new?" 

Arthur looked from Remus to Sirius. "Well," he said. "There's a rumour at the Ministry that Dolores Umbridge might take the vacant Defence Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts this autumn." Remus made a soft growling noise between his teeth at this, and turned away abruptly to fix himself another cup of tea. "As far as You-Know-Who is concerned, nothing. No attacks on Muggles; no suspicious deaths. We think he may be lying low, trying not to draw attention to himself until he's built his army up again." 

Remus nodded slowly, his thin frame – thinner than Arthur recalled – propped against the counter as he dropped a lump of sugar in his tea. He didn't look up when he spoke. "But Albus is still worried about the curse on Draco." 

Sirius made an impatient noise. Arthur glanced out the kitchen window, where Lucius' son had vanished into the woods. "Of course." 

"Albus wouldn't have placed him with us," Remus said levelly, looking straight at Arthur for nearly the first time since he'd arrived. "If he believed we couldn't handle Draco's ... situation." 

Sirius straightened. "But Albus still doesn't know what's wrong with the boy, does he? It would be foolish not to be worried, especially since there hasn't been any activity from the Death Eaters." 

Arthur cleared his throat, turning the teacup around and around between his fingers. He didn't want to get into the middle. He had always been perfectly content to leave the running of things and arguing to Molly; she was just so darn capable, it would have been silly of him not to. When he spoke, it was measured, careful, and above all, neutral. 

"There were rumours that You-Know-Who was planning to break into the Ministry – into the Department of Mysteries," he said, giving them a significant look. "But now the situation seems to have changed, with the death of the Parkinson girl and Lucius' son ending up in our hands, which would be suspicious in itself, considering the boy's reputation and past history of supporting the Death Eaters – " 

"He's barely fifteen –" Remus snapped, but Sirius cut him off before he could say anything else. 

"Let the man speak." 

Arthur blinked unhappily at them. "When Snape exposed himself by saving your life, Remus, we lost our only eye into You-Know-Who's operation. As far as the Order is concerned, we've already taken too many casualties to be acceptable. I've lost my son. They were able to destroy our headquarters only a few weeks before the rest of the Order would have taken up residence there. To concentrate not only the two of you, but Harry Potter as well, in one place with the child of one of You-Know-Who's most loyal supporters ... I'm sure you can understand why Albus considers this a very dangerous situation. He has begun to look for, well, other options." 

He was met with silence. Not even Sirius looked happy at the idea of Draco being handed off to someone else. Remus, behind his tea cup, looked as though he had half a mind to march down to Hogwarts and tell Albus off directly for it. 

Remus set his tea cup down on the counter top. He had never been one for slamming dishes, Arthur thought. "This is ridiculous to even discuss," he said, his voice flat. "Draco will be staying with us." With that he turned on his heel and stalked out the door, snatching up the small tent bag that had been brought down from Remus' attic the day before. The door shut firmly behind him, and Arthur and Sirius stared silently at each other for a long moment. 

Sirius sighed. "It is a bad idea, you know. To take him away from the only people that he trusts – if for nothing else than the boy's own well-being." He paused, and added thoughtfully, "I never thought I'd be concerned about the well-being of someone related to me." 

Arthur sipped his tea solemnly. "I'll talk to Albus about this. I have to be honest with you, Sirius, Draco Malfoy's presence here makes me quite nervous. I suppose only time will tell what's right, though." 

Sirius' eyes were bleak. "I don't think we have that kind of time, Arthur." 

-------------------------

When Mr. Weasley left, Harry, Ron and Hermione were shuffled out of the den by Sirius, given snacks, and sent outside with no explanation. Remus was standing in the yard, his hands planted on his hips, his face set in a hard line. Three Dingwall Gins, who had been considerably close to the house, fled at the approach of the teenagers, who sat on the ground when Remus refused their help with the pile of tent material he was glaring at. They were quiet; Ron and Hermione presumably considering the story that Harry had just finished telling them, Harry wondering where the hell Malfoy had gone. He scanned the edge of the woods and the other side of the lake anxiously, a stone in the pit of his stomach that he refused to believe was guilt. 

Hermione set her mug of pumpkin juice on the grass decisively, and looked at Harry. "I still think it would be a bad idea to trust Malfoy." Ron nodded in agreement. 

Harry stared at them both. "_Why?_ I mean, what could he possibly _do?_ You've barely seen him at all, but ... when he got here, he didn't even talk for a week. It took him forever to start making fun of me or ... or anything." The memory of Malfoy's hand in his made his face uncomfortably warm. 

"Have you forgotten what he said on the train, Harry?" Hermione asked earnestly. She brushed a thick hand of hair out of her face distractedly, digging her toes into the grass as she spoke. Remus glanced over to them, his expression unreadable, and then looked back to the tent. Harry watched as Remus flicked his wand, the tents inflating and steadying themselves on the uneven ground. 

" 'They'll be the first to go'," Hermione said, leaning forward. 

"I know," Harry mumbled. 

" 'Mudbloods and Muggle- lovers fi – " 

"I know!" 

Suddenly he was on his feet, his fists clenched, his faced suffused with blood. Hermione fell silent at the look on his face. Ron stared at him, agape. 

"I know what he said, and I know how horrible he's been to us for so long but – but even after I tell you two what happened to him you don't seem to understand!" he said, the words tumbling over themselves in a rush to get out of his brain, his own confusion and indescribable emotions towards Malfoy pouring out of him and mixing with frustration. The feeling of unease that had been prickling at him the entire time Ron and Hermione had been sitting, staring, listening to his explanations and not hearing a word, increased desperately. "Anybody would be different after having something like that happened and – don't look at me like that! You've never had to face him, have you? It's like everybody think it's just about throwing some spells at him or getting lucky, but nobody even knows what it's like. Like the Death Eaters and Voldemort just go around and all they do is kill people, and that the worst thing you have to fear from them is being dead. But it isn't like that – you can't even think because they don't just kill people, they rape them and burn them alive, and you might be only a second away from being murdered, or tortured, and you have to watch your friends die – and I never even _liked_ Pansy Parkinson – " 

"All right, mate," Ron said, his face stricken. "We didn't mean anything. Honest." Hermione nodded vigorously. She looked on the verge of tears. "Look, let's ... er, there's presents, and cake and all, inside." 

Harry blinked, still breathing hard. Abruptly, the last thing he wanted to do was fight with his best friends. He took a deep breath, pushing his anger away. "You guys brought a cake?" he asked, trying to keep the suspicion out of his voice. What kind of cake?" 

"Lemon," Ron replied. 

"Oh good," Harry said. "My favourite." 

-------------------------

Draco stood silently in the forest beyond the Farmhouse's protective weather bubble. His entire body trembled. He didn't flinch from the icy rain that had already soaked him nearly through. He stared, scowling, into the woods, his eyes unfocused and seeing nothing. His hands were balled into fists, which would have been agony in his burned hand if he were feeling anything at all. 

Anger had, at first, consumed him. That idiot bastard Potter, siding with his idiot bastard friends again and again and again. But as the rain soaked through his clothes and matted his hair onto his face, anger had transformed itself into a nameless dread, a panic without any coherent reason or words. His head had begun to swim, his fingers and legs had begun to shake, and he had had to sit at the base of a tree before his body could collapse underneath him. Dirt had turned into mud on his jumper and trousers. He was nearly unrecognisable as the person he had been before, the Slytherin, the prat, the leader. 

It was ridiculous, he had thought earlier, when he had been sitting, nearly paralysed under the tree. After everything he had gone through – _and I got through it and I **survived**_ – and still a stupid dismissal from Potter could undo him, make him stomp away and run off to pout in the forest. 

A low moan escaped his throat, surprising him, and he clapped a hand over his mouth before realising that there wasn't even a Dingwall Gin around to hear him. He lowered his hand slowly, noting without emotion the half-circle bruises that had formed on his palm, where his nails had bit into the skin. 

Because he had failed. Because he hadn't really survived, not really. Not if this could still happen to him, that quick squeeze of panic around his chest and the dry sobs that he couldn't keep in forever. Not if he still couldn't think of Pansy without thinking of that husk in the forest, the beat of her heart against his chest as he failed _her_, failed _Remus_, failed his father and Professor Snape _and while I'm blaming myself for everything_, he thought, for failing Harry Potter. For not living up to his standards. For being the one that Harry Potter Doesn't Like, a threat that his tutor had used to keep him in good behaviour: _Harry Potter wouldn't want to be friends with a boy who'd kill their Puffskein , would he? Harry Potter wouldn't like a child who said that word to his mother. _

Pansy had told him to get over it, and had only sniffed and laughed when he had pointed out how much she liked to antagonize Granger. Pansy, who had never taken anything as seriously as he did. Pansy, who had taken honest delight in that stupid pink dress her mother had picked out for her last term. Pansy who could simply roll her eyes and make him laugh, no matter what sort of self-righteous fervour he had worked himself into. 

Draco sank to his knees and let his head drop. His hair, already due for a trim before his father had taken him to the Forbidden Forest, fell forward into his eyes and it was almost enough, to be trapped behind white-blonde light and the sound of the rain dripping through the leaves. The rain isolated him, held him, and it was nearly an hour before he could unlock his legs and push the hair from his face, not knowing that he was strong enough to see the world again until he was standing on shaky legs. 

Remus met him in the fields that edged along the forest, bearing a moth-eaten but dry robe. And if Draco notised that the discoloured patch on the breast was a Gryffindor emblem that had been Charmed away, he made no comment. He only leaned forward slightly as they blinked at each other, not quite daring to ask for comfort, not quite daring to cry when Remus hesitantly gathered him into a tight embrace. 

_Thank you_ was what he meant to say, but all that came out, tumbling over and over in meaningless syllables, was "I'm sorry."


	9. Casualties of War: Break the Dawn

**Casualties of War:** Break the Dawn

**Author:** hans bekhart

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary: **When the second war begins, Remus Lupin and Draco Malfoy are its first casualties. In which the reader will want to slap the hell out of Remus, Draco and Harry, and possibly kiss Sirius better.

**Notes:** Thanks as always to my betas, lildove42, aralias, frogslayr and gryffinjack. My profound apologies for the lapse between updating; I had a hellish semester, my computer diedand I spentthe last few months sleeping on my stepmother's couch. But! Chapter 10 has already been finished and is awaiting the betas, and should be posted within the next few days, so it will not happen again. Chapter 11 as well is nearing completion. So the wait will not be long at all!

* * *

Harry Potter could not sleep.

It wasn't that he was uncomfortable - the Muggle tent that had been dug out of Remus' attic was not as spacious as the one the Weasleys' had brought to the Quidditch World Cup, but it didn't smell of cats, either. It wasn't noise, either: Seamus' snoring had dulled Harry's hearing over the years - Ron's snoring paled in comparison - and the occasional lowing of a Dingwall Gin in the fields outside was comforting. He was warm, he was full of cake and sweets, and yet he couldn't sleep.

He had been feeling odd all day. Malfoy's absence had nagged on him, of course, but he had been feeling uncomfortable and anxious for reasons he hadn't really wanted to examine. He hadn't done very well at faking enjoying the company of his friends, and every time he had gone to the loo or run upstairs to get a book, he had come back to find Ron and Hermione engaged in furious, whispered arguments – which they broke off at once, lapsing into a guilty silence.

If Harry had been left to his own devices that summer, it was likely that he would still be wrapped up in his own anger, ready to snap at anyone who came near him, as he had done to Ron and Hermione earlier. Living with Sirius and Remus, however, he had been engaged, entertained and made to feel ... well, like he was part of a family. Watching the way that Remus and Sirius edged around each other, how decades-old wounds still seemed fresh at times; watching the way that Remus seemed to be slowly wasting away, the desperation with which Sirius clung to him, Harry had begun to understand that there were much worse things than what he was going through.

Malfoy had challenged him almost from the beginning. At Hogwarts, he had been annoying and infuriating and hateful, but Harry had never really taken it personally. Malfoy was The Other, the personification of the House of Slytherin. Dean Thomas had compared him once to a yappy little dog that was always jumping up and down for Harry's attention, and although he had laughed at the time, he hadn't really understood it. Malfoy hated him, and that was why he was such an arsehole, right? Now, now that he actually saw Malfoy for Malfoy, as Draco Malfoy and not That Arsehole ... maybe now he understood what Dean had meant, just a bit.

Harry rolled onto his side, tucking a fist underneath his cheek, and sighed. It was sort of weird that he hadn't really thought about Voldemort recently. To say that he had been busy seemed vaguely selfish, but he supposed he had been.

He almost laughed. _Maybe Hermione is right and Malfoy is Voldemort's secret weapon – he keeps everyone distracted by being an annoying prat, and Voldemort sneaks up and catches us unprepared._

But that was stupid. Even if Harry could believe that Malfoy would willingly allow his father's friends to beat him nearly to death, Curse him and kill his housemate, Malfoy_ wasn't_ distracting everybody, just Remus and Sirius and Harry – well, mostly just himself, he had to admit – all of whom wouldn't have been doing much if Grimmauld Place hadn't been destroyed. Sirius would have been stuck in that house Harry had been told was an absolute hell-hole (Sirius' phrase for it) and Harry would probably be nicking papers out of bins to see if Voldemort had begun attacking Muggles yet. Merlin only knew what Remus would have been doing. Hanging out with African headhunters and painting fantastic works of art, if any of Dean's theories could be believed.

Harry turned over onto his back again, staring up at the purple canvas over him. Beside him, Ron huffed and puffed and possibly choked on a small dead animal. Hermione's side of the tent, separated from them by a complex system of zippers, was absolutely silent. Harry traced the zippers' path with his eyes, listened to himself breathe, and decided that he couldn't take it anymore.

He unzipped his sleeping bag slowly, biting his lip. Ron didn't even stir as he swung his legs out onto the ground, fumbling for his shoes and glasses. He'd just go up and check, he reasoned. Just to make sure that Malfoy hadn't got himself lost or something, although he had seen Remus striding off into the woods earlier in the day, a robe tucked under his arm.

He tilted his head back as he walked, shivering slightly, towards the kitchen door. It had been raining steadily since early afternoon; winter was coming, and coming hard. Instead of dissolving as it hit the Farmhouse's protective shield, the rain almost seemed to cascade down it, creating shooting star streams that sparkled and danced above his head. His feet stopped moving by themselves, and for a long moment he only stood still, strangely secure in the darkness, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, staring up into the stars and the rain.

The house was warm, and the heated air wrapped around him like a cocoon. He sucked air into his lungs gratefully, padding through the kitchen. The sound of the rain was muffled in the house, a warm white noise that blanketed his mind as he moved up the staircase, sliding a hand along the grain of the bannister.

It was dark in the room, and Harry stumbled over a book that he had tossed on the floor earlier, eager to get it put away and get back to his friends. He pushed his glasses up with one finger, peering towards Malfoy's bed as he crept closer through the warm darkness

Malfoy lay curled on his side, his hands stretched out in front of him. It was too early for him to be as tangled in his bed sheets as he would become; the quilt was kicked down to the foot of the bed, and the sheet was wrapped once around his waist and twice around his legs. Harry sat down gingerly on the edge of his own bed, wondering if he should wake Malfoy up. He pulled his trainers off without looking down, his eyes on the rise and fall of Malfoy's chest.

Since the full moon, and their fight in the bathroom that night, Harry had been very confused about Malfoy. He felt sort of foolish for the way things had turned out that morning, when he had forgotten Malfoy's presence on the stairs and allowed him to interact with Ron without interference, but he hadn't thought all that much about it. The way that Malfoy had touched him on the stairs, those light touches along his shoulder blades had pretty much overpowered consideration of what Malfoy's side was. There was already a lot to consider, after all: why did Malfoy make him feel so weird sometimes? Did Malfoy look at him the same way that Remus looked at Sirius, the way Harry had looked at Cho during fourth year? Did Malfoy have a crush on him? Was that even possible?

And maybe the most important question of all: Did Harry like Malfoy back?

Well, Harry thought as he climbed into bed, pulling the covers over himself, maybe. He smiled as he shut his eyes.

* * *

Harry gasped, jolted into consciousness by a sharp pain on his neck. He hissed between his teeth, blinking rapidly to try and clear away his confusion. Malfoy was standing over him, his face pink and eyes glittering.

"What do you think you're doing up here, Potter?" Malfoy drawled. "Did your lackeys kick you out of the tent for a bit of the old in-out?"

Harry gaped eloquently. "What?" he managed.

Malfoy leaned close, unsettlingly reminiscent of Snape's loom. Harry hunched his shoulders and didn't pull away.

"I said," Malfoy leered, enunciating each syllable carefully, "what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be down in that tent with your little friends?"

"Er," Harry said. He sat up. Distressingly, Malfoy didn't move back, but stayed where he was, too close for comfort. "I wanted to make sure you were alright," he said, which sounded completely stupid in the daylight.

Malfoy smirked. "Isn't that adorable."

Finally, he moved away, scooping his clothing up from where it was laid neatly over the back of a chair. He turned back to Harry, eyes hooded. He was wearing some sort of mouldy, threadbare robe over his pajamas, Harry noticed; there was a discoloured patch where the Hogwarts insignia usually went. As they watched each other, Malfoy drew his armload of clothes up tighter to his chest, seemingly unconsciously, and quirked an eyebrow.

"You're acting weird," Harry said warily.

Malfoy hesitated at that, his hand on the doorknob. Harry could see him suck in a breath and hold it, his bottom lip disappearing under his top in a way that made him look rather vulnerable. It was gone in a flash, and Malfoy beared his teeth at Harry in an eerie version of a smile.

"I'm flattered you noticed," he said, and was gone.

Harry allowed a cautious five minutes to elapse and then got dressed, shrugging on his thickest pair of trousers and a Weasley jumper for extra warmth. He didn't always need additional layers when in the Farmhouse, but maybe if Ron and Hermione stayed for a while today, he thought, he'd take them down to the shore. He listened to the bathroom door creak open and Malfoy's footsteps go past their room and down the stairs, and tried to bludgeon his thoughts into something that made sense.

Malfoy was acting really strangely, that was certain. Although he was fairly strange anyway, Harry thought, so how the hell was he supposed to figure out why Malfoy had suddenly decided to be all prickly? Maybe Remus had convinced him to be nice to Harry's friends, and just the idea of it had made all the friendly bits of Malfoy's brain explode.

_He's probably just acting like a prat because he can,_ Harry decided sourly, and opened the bedroom door. He'd probably have to talk to Malfoy and see what was going on, although the thought made his stomach turn upside-down. _Malfoy won't be honest with me anyway, he'll just be even stupider once he knows I want to –_

Harry blinked. That uncomfortable feeling in his stomach was back. He grimaced and started down the stairs. He and Malfoy had been – weird as it was to say, or even _think_ – friends for a month now. Maybe he'd be able to talk some sense into the other boy; maybe it wouldn't be as bad as all that. He fixed that optimistic thought firmly in his mind, and went downstairs to face the day.

If Harry had ever thought that Draco Malfoy was an obnoxious, offensive little bastard before, he had been wrong. However annoying Malfoy had ever been at Hogwarts, it paled in comparison to the way he behaved on the day after Harry's fifteenth birthday.

Ron and Hermione had come into the Farmhouse about ten minutes after Harry had warily gone downstairs. He had come upon Remus, dead asleep in his armchair in the living room, his desk in a state of disarray. Remus still hadn't woken by the time Ron and Hermione entered the kitchen from outside, looking embarrassed and more than a little hurt by Harry's presence in the house, with Malfoy, rather than outside with them. In the light of day, faced with the hard glitter in Malfoy's eyes, Harry felt a bit of an idiot for having left the tent the night before, and explanations failed him as he looked at his friends.

Sirius stumbled down after they had finished breakfast – a cold meal of cheese, apples and bread, throughout which Malfoy had glared at everyone but said nothing – looking as befuddled as Harry felt. He stood at the kitchen door silently, looking long at each of them, and then turned and walked back into the living room. They listened to him rouse Remus: Remus' muttered protests and Sirius' soft tones.

When the two of them entered the kitchen a moment later, Remus looked as exhausted as Harry had ever seen, greeting his former students vaguely. His skin had a faint green cast to it, and while Harry and Malfoy politely ignored how much Remus was pretending not to lean on Sirius for strength, Hermione stared openly, quivering with the effort of paying attention to everything and still ignore the way that Malfoy was leering at them.

Sirius took a seat at the table next to Harry, and they exchanged weary glances. Remus floated past the table in the general direction of the tea kettle, seemingly oblivious to the stares of those seated, who anxiously watched his progress as though he was ready to fall at any moment.

The sound of a chair scraping against the floor made Harry jump, although it was only Malfoy, rising inexplicably to help Remus make tea, something he had never done before. He filled the tea kettle with water while Remus patted himself down for his wand, their heads inclined together as they spoke in low, inaudible voices to each other.

"Sleep well?" Sirius inquired, next to Harry's ear. Harry nodded, shrugged. He wondered if any of the stuff he had been thinking about last night would make sense to Sirius. He didn't want Sirius to think he was stupid or gross. He watched Sirius ask Ron and Hermione the same question, and Hermione bombarded him with questions about the Dingwall Gins and what Charms exactly created and maintained the atmosphere around the Farmhouse. Harry watched the way Hermione's hair bobbed around her face when she talked, watched Ron watch the way Hermione's hair bobbed around her face when she talked, and wondered what the hell was wrong with him, that his mind kept returning to the pale stretch of skin above Malfoy's hips. Sirius would definitely think he was disgusting, Harry knew, even if he and Remus were boyfriends or whatever they were. Harry sighed and put his face into his hands.

Sirius reached over and patted Harry's shoulder without a break in conversation. Harry raised his head, obscurely comforted, but when he looked around he saw that Malfoy was watching him, that odd, blank expression on his face. He looked away when Harry caught his eye.

Harry felt a nudge against his leg under the table, and looked over to see that both Ron and Hermione were looking at him, their expressions sympathetic and supportive. Malfoy was perched up on the counter, playing with a block of cheese, his eyes fixed once again on Harry and his friends.

Harry made an effort to collect himself. "Er," he said, clearing his throat. "Well, er, we've got a beach a little ways into the forest ... I thought it might be - "

Something hit Harry in the side of the face, and he paused, blinked. Slowly rotated his head to the left.

He was rewarded with another missile to the face. As it bounced off of his nose and into his lap, he realised belatedly that he was being pelted with bits of cheese. He looked back to where Malfoy and Remus were lounging against the counter. Malfoy's eyes glinted.

"What the hell are you doing, Malfoy?" Ron demanded, his chair scraping noisily against the stone floor as he rose in Harry's defense. Malfoy shot him a sloe-eyed look and another bit of cheese bounced into Hermione's hair and stuck there. She made an angry noise and plucked it out, rising to her feet as well.

Harry found himself strangely unable to move. Part of him wanted to laugh. Two weeks ago, Malfoy had driven him insane for hours, flying around on his broom and flicking pebbles at Harry. Eventually he had taken to chasing Malfoy and throwing the pebbles back, which seemed to be what the Slytherin wanted, and they engaged in aerial rock fights until Harry had to draw the line at carpet-bombing a herd of Dingwall Gins that was gathered at the pond. He listened to Ron and Malfoy exchange furious and lazy, respectively, insults and struggled between laughter and outrage.

Sirius stood and attempted to intervene, shooting looks at Remus, who stood with his back against the counter next to Malfoy, hiding something suspiciously like a smile behind his tea cup. Harry watched Remus and felt the heavy gaze of Hermione on him. He picked up the bit of cheese that had fallen into his lap and carefully considered it.

It was faintly salty when he popped it into his mouth, and as Sirius finally succeeded in preventing violence between Ron and Malfoy, Harry wondered if maybe he was tasting Malfoy on it.

* * *

Remus broke off a piece of Honeyduke's finest, carefully gathering the crumbly bits into his hand. Arthur had returned for his charges with gifts from Dumbledore: bottles of Firewhiskey for Sirius and a veritable feast of chocolate for Remus. This particular delicacy was a pure, creamy milk chocolate; chocolate with nuts, or dried fruit and crumbled Fizzing Wizzbees awaited him, but what could compare with the simplicity of the classic chocolate bar? Remus bit into the hunk of chocolate in his hand, not quite letting his eyes fall shut as flavour melted over his tongue. He hummed happily to himself as he took another bite, spreading the other bars on the table in front of him, admiring his hoard.

"Has anyone ever gotten you off," Sirius' voice drawled from behind him, "Just with chocolate?"

Remus pondered the question carefully, his eyes tracking Sirius as the other man moved carefully to face him. "Not that I recall," he replied loftily.

Sirius only looked at him, his expression unreadable. "Was I imagining things," he said finally, "Or were you encouraging that mess?"

Remus pursed his lips. They stared at each other for a long moment. "You know as well as I do that there are things between them that need to come to a head, and it will take them forever to get to it by themselves."

Sirius looked displeased. "How incredibly ..._ manipulative_ of you," he said, frowning

Remus shrugged and turned his attention back to his chocolate, popping another sizeable bite into his mouth. Sirius sat down on the couch next to him, and they stared at the fireplace in uncomfortable silence.

"The Remus that I knew," he said slowly, a crease between his eyes, "Wouldn't push two boys into fights simply because he thought it was taking too long for them to fight on their own."

Remus scowled, his gaze still on the fireplace. "The Remus that you knew," he said just as slowly. "That's an interesting phrase to use. I'm almost sorry that I can't say the same to you, because the Sirius that I know still behaves in the manner of the Sirius that I used to know, fifteen years ago. I was always especially fond of the way that the Sirius I used to know always compared me to James, and I'm so glad that that's a trait that the Sirius who lives with me now still has."

"James would never lie to me," Sirius said tightly.

"Well then it's a good thing that – "

Remus broke off mid-word, distantly feeling his muscles draw together, his body curling in on itself as it remembered, again, what they'd both lost. Beside him, he felt Sirius stiffen. He watched Sirius' fingers dig into the fabric of his trousers before Sirius could get a hold of himself. They sat silently, barely breathing, the warmth from Sirius' body leeching slowly into Remus' side. He could barely keep himself from leaning into it.

"I can't believe you'd –" Sirius said. " – How could you – Moony, why don't you just tell me the truth?"

Remus sighed. He put his chocolate carefully down on the table. It had turned to ashes in his mouth. "Sirius," he said, and hesitated. "Sirius, if I could tell you – I would have already. I can't."

"I'm just supposed to accept that?" Sirius said bitterly. "Moony, this is killing me. Please ... just tell me what's wrong with you. I know that you're sick. I know that you're mad about something. Is it me? Is it Harry?"

"Why would I ever be mad at Harry?" Remus said softly.

Sirius laughed coldly. "Then it's me, is it? Is there any reason? Just as a change of pace, that is."

Remus shut his eyes. "Sirius, I'm sorr – "

"It doesn't matter," Sirius mumbled, cutting him off. "Don't say you're sorry if you're not."

Remus shut his mouth so hard his teeth clicked together, and he winced. He leaned away from Sirius' warmth deliberately, scooting away without responding to the other man. Sirius held still as Remus pulled walls around himself.

"You may not believe it, Remus, but I love you," Sirius muttered. "I would never keep anything from you. I wouldn't tell Snivellus my secrets and not my goddamn best friend and lover." His tone changed, becoming mockingly light and bitter. "But, of course, I wouldn't understand, would I? I'm too immature. I'm too – "

"Stop it, Sirius." Remus kept his voice low and even because he knew that it would anger Sirius nearly as much as what he actually said. "This isn't even about me – I've always been your complement, not your equal, not your co-conspirator. The only reason you care so much is because you thought you had lost me. If Grimmauld Place hadn't been destroyed, if I hadn't been captured, you'd be sitting around your mother's house bemoaning your fate, getting drunk and obsessing over James."

"That is not true – "

"I've never had a problem with it, Sirius. I know how you are. But please – please leave me alone. Go fixate on Harry or something."

Sirius blinked and stood. He stayed frozen for long moments, and Remus stared into the fireplace and wondered when he'd last cleaned it.

He pretended not to notice when Sirius stumbled away.

* * *

By the time Ron and Hermione left, Harry had stopped being amused by Malfoy's behaviour. He was so angry he could barely see straight, which until now he hadn't actually thought possible. It wasn't that Malfoy wouldn't leave them alone no matter what kind of fight they had ended up in; it wasn't that he had called Hermione a mudblood several times over the course of the day; it wasn't that he had said farewell to Ron by saying"Sorry to hear about your brother, Weasel. Sorry it wasn't you, that is" and it wasn't even that Harry was belatedly realizing that Malfoy was a human being (even if he wasn't acting like one) and he liked being with him.

Maybe it was all of those things. Maybe it was that Sirius was too angry with Remus to talk to Harry. Maybe it was all the frustration at finding himself bored with his friends. Maybe it was Harry himself.

He stormed outside after Malfoy as soon as Ron, Hermione and Ron's dad were through the Floo. Malfoy was lounging around outside, staring out towards the pond with his hands in his pockets. He turned when Harry slammed the kitchen door and his eyes widened briefly before narrowing.

"You look upset, Potter," he remarked, and turned away.

Harry's hand flew up and wrapped around Malfoy's bicep , spinning him around almost before Harry knew what he was doing. It was only when Malfoy hissed in pain that Harry realized that he had grabbed Malfoy's injured arm. He released his hold on Malfoy abruptly, and they stared at each other silently for a long moment, disgust written across Malfoy's face.

"Why the hell were you acting like that, Malfoy?" Harry said angrily.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and studied the sleeve of his jacket critically, as if inspecting it for lint. "Like what?" he asked.

Harry took a step forward, his fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to knock Malfoy across the face, make him look at Harry. Malfoy took a step forwards as well. They stood almost nose to nose, Malfoy's growth spurt in third year nearly matched by Harry's in fourth. "You know what," Harry growled.

Malfoy pursed his lips and pretended to think. "It's on the tip of my tongue, I'm sure of it." he mused.

Harry could have howled. "I thought we were getting along," he said tightly. "I thought you were finally acting like a normal person, so what the hell are you doing this for? Ron and Hermione didn't do anything to you"

Malfoy's lip curled disdainfully. "As always, Potter, you see what you want to."

"I'm not an idiot, Malfoy!" Harry shouted. Malfoy snorted, and Harry glared at him. "Although I feel like one_ now._ I actually thought you wanted to be my friend."

"I have always wanted to be your friend!"

Harry stopped yelling, his mouth still open. Malfoy coloured. They reguarded each other warily, breathing hard.

"No you haven't," Harry said at last, blinking.

Malfoy looked disgusted. "You are so dense, Potter." Harry searched for a response and came up blank. Malfoy's expression was ugly. "I give up," he hissed, and turned away.

Harry stared after him, and it was a moment before his brain could convince his feet to move. "Don't walk away from me," he warned, reaching for Malfoy's shoulder. Malfoy pushed his hand away. Harry pushed back.

Malfoy drew back, seemingly unconsciously. His eyes flashed. "I don't want to do this," he hissed. "I thought it would work, but I have since decided that you are simply too obtuse to see that anything anybody does could possibly be related to you fucking up. I am giving up on you, Potter, so leave me alone." He turned, and Harry grabbed his arm again.

"How," Harry growled,"could you being the most awful arsehole in the history of the world be my fault? How could you say that about Ron's brother?"

Draco's hands came up and shoved Harry away, hard. Harry staggered. "How could you tell me to behave when Weasel started it?" he shouted.

"That has nothing to do with this?" Harry shouted back.

"You are so dense, Potter!"

"You don't ever make any sense, Malfoy!"

Malfoy shut his mouth hard, his lips pressed tightly together. Hectic spots of color had appeared high on his cheeks, and Harry knew that he was getting to Malfoy. He shielded his eyes, blinded by the sun on his face and the white-blond of Malfoy's hair, which fell into the other boy's face, lifting on a breath of wind. Malfoy stared at him silently, and Harry returned his gaze challengingly, his jaw set in a hard line.

"I don't know why I ever thought you were anything special," Malfoy said finally. His tone was spiteful. "You're just a stupid, useless child like me."

Harry stepped forward and grabbed Malfoy, hauling him close by the front of his jacket. "Then why bother being nice to me, Malfoy? Why pretend that you like me?"

"Maybe I really_did_ like you," Malfoy hissed, and then looked furious with himself.

"I find that really hard to believe," Harry said. Even through the haze of anger, Malfoy's breath on his face - still smelling faintly of toothpaste - and the heat of him through his jacket was making Harry's stomach do flip-flops. "I'd sooner believe that you were a spy, like Hermione said."

Malfoy's hand came up and clenched around the collar of Harry's jumper. "How_dare_ you!" he cried, and even as Harry's mouth ran away with his sanity he thought how oddly archaic it sounded. His fists tightened on Malfoy's jacket.

"Why not?" Harry shouted. "I've known all this time what a lousy person you are - ever since I met you in the robe shop I knew you weren't any good. And it's not like Pansy was your friend. People like you don't have friends, they have - they have _minions_."

Malfoy drew back and punched him square in the face. Harry's glasses slipped upwards on his face and caught on his left ear, hanging at an angle off of his head.

Insanely, he wanted to laugh. Instead he pulled Malfoy forward and then pushed him violently away. Malfoy went down, sprawling on the grass, and Harry followed, straddling Malfoy's chest and returning the favour of Malfoy's punch, bloodying the boy's nose.

"You hit like a girl," Harry hissed, and hit Malfoy again. Malfoy swung at him ineffectually, knocking the side of his head and making his ear ring, bucking to try and get Harry off of him.

"You bastard," he hissed.

"I'm not the one nancing about, pretending to be so traumatised," Harry shouted. Malfoy's good hand snarled into his hair and yanked visciously. His bandaged one knocked into Harry's throat, trying to wrap around and choke him but unable to move his fingers enough to do so. "I should have known all that hand-holding and being nice was complete shit - you couldn't ever behave like any other person, or get stupid crushes like - like any other person! I bet you planned it all out with your father, just like your stupid holidays - I bet you begged them to hit you, didn't you? You begged ..."

Harry felt his voice trail off into silence. His elbow was cocked back, his hand unsure of whether to hit Malfoy again or pull the other boy's hand out of his hair. Malfoy's face had gone white, completely bloodless; a thing Harry had always heard described in Aunt Petunia's romance novels, but never believed actually happened in real life. His mouth hung slack, his fist loose in Harry's hair, no longer pulling. Harry had the odd impression, frozen over Malfoy's unresisting body, that he could actually look_ through_ Malfoy's eyes; they were dead, opaque. He knew that he could hit Malfoy over and over and the Slytherin wouldn't raise another finger to stop him. He wondered if maybe Malfoy had looked like this after - after -

_Oh,_ Harry thought. _Oh **god.**_

"Harry!"

Harry jumped, his hand closing into a fist automatically, and he came down heavily on Malfoy's stomach. Malfoy didn't move, and Harry rolled off of him, kneeling awkwardly in the grass. Remus stood at the doorway of the Farmhouse, one hand on the knob.

"What the hell is going on?" Remus asked, atonished. He took one faltering step forward, and then another, the look in his eyes anguished. Harry searched for words and found none. Malfoy lay unmoving behind him, his pale, unmarked left hand laying unclenched on the grass like a porcelin doll that had been left in the rain, just visible at the edge of Harry's vision. The sight of it made Harry want to throw up.

Remus stared at them, still some metres away, taking in the scene before him: Harry's red and scratched neck, the blood from Malfoy's nose, obscenely red against his skin. He seemed incapable of speech.

Malfoy sat up without a sound, stumbling to his knees with his good hand pressed protectively against his burned hand. He walked away slowly, mechanically, as though he knew that neither Harry nor Remus would follow him. His hair hung in his eyes and shielded it from view, his face still that awful bloodless colour. Harry and Remus watched him vanish into the trees without speaking. Slowly, as if the movement caused him pain, Remus turned his gaze back onto Harry.

"Harry," he said, and stopped. "What - "

Harry stared into Remus' eyes and couldn't bring himself to speak.


	10. Casualties of War: Tear Down the Wall

**Casualties of War: Tear Down the Wall**

**By** hans bekhart

**Rating:** PG-13 for reference to rape, language

**Notes:** Thanks so much to my everwonderful and patient betas, lildove42, aralias, and frogslayr. References to Remus' history can be found in another story of mine, hate myself. Thanks to lildove42 for helping me name the porn mag. Yes, the next chapter is nearly finished and will be posted very soon. Um, please don't kill me after you finish this chapter.

-

Silence lay heavy over the Farmhouse. It saturated the air. It suffocated the lowing of the Dingwall Gins, Sirius' absent singing. When Harry had followed Remus numbly back inside, he had thought that something was wrong with his hearing. That it was because his own head was abuzz with what he had done, the look on Malfoy's face, that everything seemed muted. But as hours wore on and Malfoy came back and wouldn't speak to Remus or even look at Harry, he began to realize that it was all of them: weighted down by things they wouldn't say. Sirius and Harry drifted in and out of each other's orbit, casting sympathetic glances and then turning away. Harry realized that he hadn't told Sirius anything of how he had been feeling, his suspicions of what had happened to Malfoy. Remus was almost worse, wrapped in a tangible air of misery and silence. Even Malfoy stayed away, stayed inside when he had always gone wandering before, to get away when tensions ran too high. Harry sat in Remus' living room silently, his arms wrapped around his knees, and looked at treasures that might or might not have come from his parents until it was too much and he went to bed.

He was still awake when Malfoy came upstairs, undressing in the darkness without a sound and slipping into his own bed, as though Harry wasn't in the room at all. Harry stared at the outline of Malfoy's body, slivers of moonlight leaching the colour out of his hair and thought he could feel Malfoy staring back. Malfoy turned away before any words could come to his lips, and so Harry turned away as well. He stared at the wall and told himself he didn't want to roll back around, kick off his covers and crawl into Malfoy's bed and make Malfoy talk to him.

Eventually he heard Malfoy's breathing slow. Harry didn't turn around. He watched the moonlight travel across their walls and up the ceiling. He matched his breathing to Malfoy's soft snores. He rolled over and back again just as quickly, furious with himself that he had rolled over first. He watched the deepest shadows in the room slowly lighten.

A knock at the door startled him. His first thought - irrational, paranoid - was that it was Malfoy; that the other boy had somehow snuck out of his bed without Harry noticing - and he rolled over to look. Disappointingly, Malfoy was still asleep, his back to Harry, and so, when Harry looked up, it was to see Remus staring at him curiously from the doorway.

"I thought I heard you awake up here," Remus whispered. Harry blinked. "Would you like to come with me to the shoreline to collect murtlap?"

Harry swallowed and nodded, throwing off his blankets and reaching for his glasses. "I'll meet you downstairs," Remus said. Harry nodded again, feeling uncertain.

Dressed and bundled up against the cold of the approaching autumn, they made their way down to the shore, a mile or so through the woods on Remus' property. It was raining, faintly but persistantly, in a way that Harry had always hated: when it rained hard enough to fog his glasses but not enough to justify staying inside. Fog hung low through the treeline, shifting as they walked over leaves too damp to mumble beneath their feet. Remus hummed quietly and lead the way, Harry trailing behind and feeling guilty without knowing quite why. He watched Remus limp through the underbrush and tried to forget the look on his former teacher's face when he had seen Harry crouched over Malfoy, fist pulled back.

They stood at the top of the cliffs, and Harry stared at his feet and the sandy earth beneath his trainers. He was painfully aware of Remus' gaze upon him, and could imagine the disappointment in them.

He was quite shocked when Remus sighed heavily and said "Harry, I am so sorry about what happened yesterday. I had no idea that it would turn out that way."

Harry's head shot up. "What?" he said blankly.

Remus' face was lined with guilt. "I hope you can forgive me. I ... honestly didn't think that things would get so out of hand."

Harry looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Draco decided yesterday that he was going to be as ... antagonistic as he could to you," Remus said softly. "I didn't try to dissuade him. To be honest, I encouraged it."

"Oh." Harry blinked. His stomach twisted a bit, uncertain. "Why?"

Remus turned to face him fully, looking unhappy. "I - I thought that there were ... some issues between the two of you, that needed resolution, and that I could help bring things to the boiling point and clear the air, so to speak." He sighed. "But I'm afraid I was merely meddling, wasn't I?" He started down the slope, moving sideways to help him keep his balance. Harry followed, sending showers of pebbles down onto Remus' shoes as he scrambled, less graceful in his descent than his former professor.

"Why didn't anyone tell me about Malfoy?" Harry said. He tried to keep the anger and confusion out of his voice and failed. Remus paused and Harry nearly ran into him, grabbing onto one of the shrubs that dotted the pathway at the last moment.

"What about him?" Remus asked blandly.

Harry hesitated. "Was he raped like Pansy Parkinson was?"

Remus blinked twice, rapidly. "Well," he said, and paused. "What makes you think that?" He turned down the path and started walking again, his back straight. Harry winced. He didn't want to remember that look on Malfoy's face, the blood.

"He - he froze when I said something about him having - begged for what happened to him," Harry admitted, slowly. He heard Remus draw in a sharp breath.

"Ah," was all that Remus said.

They reached the beach in uncomfortable silence, and Remus strode off purposefully to the left. Harry followed grimly, his trainers sinking into the sand.

"Well? Was he?" Harry asked, when he could stand it no longer.

Remus turned to face him. "Yes," he said quietly. "Draco was raped. We didn't tell you because it is his decision to let people know, not ours. The only people that he has told directly is Professor Snape and myself, although Albus and Madam Pomfrey know as well. They witnessed it when they put his memories of the ... event into the Pensieve."

"Oh," Harry said softly. "Do they know who did it?"

Remus' face was hard. "They were all masked."

_They._ Harry's heart felt as though someone had cast a Diffindo Charm on it. "I've been horrible to him," Harry said, his eyes widening as he tried to absorb it all.

Remus hesitated, and then laid a cautious hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry tensed, a little startled; it was rare for Remus to touch any of them, even Sirius. Remus brought his other hand up and laid it on Harry's other shoulder. "Harry," he said, "You didn't know. Considering what sort of history there is between the two of you, I could hardly expect anything more of you than what you've given. Draco doesn't want your pity, he wants to be your friend."

"Not anymore," Harry muttered. He looked away, embarassed by the flush on his cheeks.

"You might be surprised," Remus said, smiling a bit.

"I said he was a bad person," Harry said stubbornly. "That he didn't have friends, he had minions."

Remus laughed aloud. "Did you really?"

Harry nodded, shame-faced, and Remus shook him gently. "In normal circumstances, I'm sure that Draco would consider that a compliment."

Harry surprised himself by laughing. "That was what made him hit me."

Remus shrugged, still smiling, as if to say 'oh well.' He stepped away from Harry and they began their trek down the shoreline again, this time walking side by side.

"I don't normally meddle," Remus said thoughtfully. "I'm not sure why I did. I'm sure I have plenty of excuses, but very few reasons. I'm terribly sorry about all of this, Harry."

Harry smiled, looking up at Remus. "That's the third time you've said that. It's ok, Remus. I was never mad at you anyway."

A rather foolish smile spread slowly over Remus' face. "Thank you, Harry," he said solemnly.

They trudged on in comfortable silence. Harry had been down to the shore three times since he and Malfoy had arrived at the Farmhouse; twice with Sirius and once with Malfoy. Harry had never been allowed to go to the seashore with the Dursleys when he was small, and it was his first real experience at a beach. He had always been foisted off on Mrs. Figg or some other neighbor when Dudley and his parents had gone on holiday. An odd thought struck him - who was taking care of Mrs. Figg's many cats now? He hoped vaguely that it was someone nice.

Harry liked the sound the waves made, crashing on the shore. It wasn't properly described in books, he had decided; the way that the quiet rush of water made all of his troubles seem quite far away. The smell of the salt on the rocks made him feel like he was on another planet entirely. Even Remus' voice felt muted, coloured grey like the sky.

"Murtlap are interesting little creatures," Remus was saying. "They're more closely related, evolutionarily speaking, to the rock crab than the rats they actually resemble. Their exact origin is unknown, but it's theorised that Idylwilde the Inquisitive created them in 1759. Because it was widely believed at the time that they were completely useless, they were one of the wizard-created species, along with the Acromantula, that lead to the banning of cross-breeding magical creatures. As, indeed, you might recall from your History of Magic class," he grinned, "if Binns has become any more interesting than when I was at Hogwarts. Never could stay awake, personally. It was a miracle that I passed the class each year ... Sirius is likely the only reason I did. He took excellent notes."

They were approaching a large outcropping of rock that jutted some distance into the water. Harry could see a number of spiny, rat-like creatures crawling about on it, playing and wrestling.

"Would you help me Stun a few, Harry," Remus asked. "It's best to get as many as possible, as quickly as possible, before they realise what's going on and hide. They're devilishly hard to dig out of the rocks." Harry nodded and they stopped some meters away from the murtlap, who didn't seem too alarmed at their approach.

"On threem" Remus said, and Harry got his wand ready. "One, two ..."

"Stupefy!" they shouted together. Two of the murtlap froze, and the rest scattered. They picked a few more off before going forward to collect their bounty. Remus produced a thin knife and a small vial from a pocket in his robes, and, kneeling, set to work deftly prying off the crusty formations from the murtlap's back.

"Now, Harry," Remus said as he worked. "What is going on between you and Draco"

Harry felt his face grow hot. "Er," he said lamely. "Dunno."

Remus paused and looked up at him, his mouth quirked. "I know you better than that."

Harry moved away, gathering up the murtlap that lay scattered on the sand and laying them carefully in a small pile next to Remus. "It's stupid," he said.

Remus looked at him shrewdly. "You know, Harry, that Sirius and I were involved when we were about your age."

"You've been together that long!" Harry exclaimed, and then blushed.

Remus grimaced and shook his head, a blush of his own darkening his face. "Not exactly together," he said delicately. "Let me just refer to it as a long-standing flirtation and an occasional ... _liason_. But it was a very confusing thing, especially for Sirius, to realise that he wasn't attracted to, well, the gender that he felt he was supposed to be attracted to."

Harry ducked his head. "It's not even really that," he said plaintively. "I don't mind that stuff, I guess. But ... it's _Draco Malfoy_, Remus. It doesn't get any worse than that."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Imagine being attracted to Severus Snape," Remus said, with a bit of a grin on his face. Harry made a noise of absolute horror, and Remus laughed. "Anyway, it doesn't make you ... well, bad or -"

"Stupid?" Harry suggested forlornly, sitting down on the rock next to Remus.

Remus laughed. "Or stupid. Or disgusting."

Harry smiled at him shyly, and felt the knots in his chest loosen a little bit. "Actually," he said after a long pause, watching Remus work in silence. "I had sort of thought you had been in love with my mom ... it sounded that way sometimes, when you talked about her with me, back when you were our professor."

Remus stared at him, his eyes almost comically wide. "Oh good lord, Harry, no. I was never in love with your mother. She was just a very good friend to me. To be honest, I found her a little bit too ... overwhelming, at times, to consider in a – a romantic sort of way. She had a scowl that could kill a man at ten paces."

Harry smothered a giggle behind his hand. "I never thought anyone could consider Malfoy in a 'romantic way' - especially me. He's horrid and mean and he never makes any sense at all."

Remus hmm-ed in agreement. "Life is full of surprises. Even now it can surprise me, how swiftly one's best laid plans can vanish."

Harry pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "Yeah," he said thoughtfully. "Yeah, but - I'm glad that it - it did. I'm glad that I'm here with you and Sirius and sometimes Malfoy."

"Me too," Remus said softly. "Even though I wish the ... circumstances that lead to it could have been different, I would not change these last few months of my life for anything."

Harry didn't notice the tremor in his voice, the way he stumbled over the last few words. Remus handed him the thin knife to give shelling the murtlap a try. He poked it gently with the tip of the blade, a little alarmed at the possibility of cutting it too deeply.

"So what's going on with you and Sirius?" Harry asked, imitating Remus' casual tone. Remus sighed and folded his long legs underneath him, a wry smile on his face.

"Is it that obvious?"

Harry rolled his eyes and said nothing. A barnacle popped off the murtlap's back suddenly, and Harry grabbed it in mid-air. Remus whistled appreciatively.

"You're getting the hang of that ... just don't push the knife in quite so deeply at first. Work it in gently until you get a feel for it ... exactly, good job." He sighed heavily. "I'm sorry that Sirius and I have been fighting. I hadn't really thought of how disruptive it must be for you and Draco."

"But, why are you fighting?" Harry asked. A large formation came off neatly in his hand, and he made a pleased sound. "It's only," he continued, moving on to the next prone murtlap. "That Malfoy and me don't ever figure out what it is you argue about."

"Malfoy and _I_, Harry," Remus said vaguely. He stared into the mist, his eyes tracking the swell of water before it formed a wave and crashed onto the shore, vanishing into the sand. He seemed to be considering the question carefully.

"There's too much time between us," he said finally. "We don't understand each other anymore - I'm not sure if we ever did."

Harry looked up and then back at the knife, working another spiney formation off of the murtlap. "Weren't you best friends?"

Remus looked at him sharply, but his mild tone belied his expression. "Your father was Sirius' best friend."

Harry shrugged. "But you're friends - or something - now, right? Ron and I fought a lot last term. He didn't speak to me for weeks over the stupid Triwizard Tournament." He scowled in rememberance.

Remus studied him. "You're right, Harry," he said softly. "Sirius deserves better than the way I've been treating him. Thank you."

Harry coloured. "Er. You're welcome, I guess."

Remus stood, balancing the Enlarged vial under his arm. "How about we make a deal?" he asked, extending an arm to Harry. "If you will talk with Draco about what you told me, I will talk with Sirius and promise not to pick fights with him anymore."

Harry smiled nervously. "Alright." They shook on it.

Remus smiled back. He looked anxious as well. "In that case, let's go face the firing squad."

-

"Malfoy?"

The room was quiet when Harry pushed open the door, hesitating before he could summon up the courage to step inside and close the door behind himself. The outline of Malfoy's body was hazy and indistinct, washed out against the walls and the pale light that leaked inside from their shuttered window. Malfoy stirred, mumbling indistinctly. He rolled over and opened his eyes, frowning slightly. Harry moved to stand between their beds, looking down at Malfoy, whose eyes tracked him across the room.

"I know what happened," Harry said. It felt impossible to catch his breath. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I said all of that. I didn't know ... I'm sorry."

Malfoy blinked at him slowly. His eyes were shuttered, cast to one side. He rubbed at his neck with three fingers of his left hand absently. "I never took the Dark Mark," he said. "I made that up to scare you. I didn't even know where we were going that night. My father told me we were going to dinner with the Notts."

Harry sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, encouraged when Malfoy didn't move away. Malfoy sat up, his expression wary. They stared at each other silently, appraisingly. "Did Remus tell you?" Malfoy asked.

Harry shook his head. "I figured it out. I asked him about it though, and he said yes." He waited for Malfoy to tell him that he was an arsehole, that he never wanted to talk to Harry again. Malfoy only nodded, his eyes slowly gaining animation.

"I'm only admitting this because I am exhausted, Potter. I haven't been able to sleep properly for days. It feels like my whole body hurts all the time. I am tired of ... of everything. So you can't ever tell Granger or any of your friends this, alright? I won't say a word if you don't promise."

"I promise," Harry said solemnly. He shifted closer to Malfoy, who pulled back only a little. "I wouldn't tell anybody any way."

Malfoy's mouth twisted into a wry smile, and something in his eyes reminded Harry obscurely of Sirius. "I don't think you're dumb, Potter. Well, alright, sometimes I do. I've gotten the strange impression over the last few months, that you used to reguard me as a sort of ... barometer of evil when we were younger, which I just don't understand. I know you're not a complete idiot. But then what was it? Did you just ... not want to see it at all"

"See what" Harry asked. "The part about ..."

"You can say it," Malfoy said, his voice hard. "Sticks and stones, after all. But yes, that and everything else. Me. Did you not want to see me, or did you not even realise that you weren't?"

Harry shook his head. "Dunno," he said after a pause. "Both, maybe. You just - were always so awful, you made it - I guess it was just easier to hate you."

Unexpectedly, Draco grinned, rather lop-sidedly. "I felt the same way. You are so arrogant - you've had so many rules broken for you that you expect it. You didn't care that you were the youngest Seeker in a century. You never pay attention to anybody who isn't worshipping you ... you've been in the same classes with the same people for four years now, and you still don't know the names of anybody outside your house."

Harry stared at his hands. It was difficult to find a response; he couldn't very well deny the last part. "I never thought of it that way," he admitted, grudgingly.

"Of course you wouldn't," Malfoy said, almost kindly. "Thinking is for lesser mortals, not Harry Potter."

"You're an arsehole," Harry said, and moved closer.

"No," Malfoy replied, and moved closer as well. "I just have more imagination than is good for me." They were sitting side by side now. Malfoy's leg was pressed against Harry's own, as warm as the blush that was beginning to form on Harry's face. They sat in contemplative silence.

"Don't you dare tell anyone about me - being raped," Malfoy said suddenly.

Harry shook his head. "I wouldn't, but - why not? Why does it matter who knows"

Malfoy snorted and pulled away, reaching for his quilt and pulling it around himself tightly. Harry fidgeted as he arranged it carefully with his one good hand.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "That was a stupid thing to ask."

Malfoy shrugged, not looking at him. "You wouldn't understand."

"I want to," Harry said.

Malfoy's head dropped. His hair fell into his eyes, and he pushed it back irritably. He seemed to be considering something deeply. When he spoke, his voice was rough and halting.

"I - they - they did it to her first. They were still - hitting me and at first, I didn't even see it. She had been screaming the whole time anyway. And - I was too. I screamed too. It was different than being, you know, Cursed ... being hit with just their fists, or a - a cane. But it was so much more - awful, when they - get that stupid look off your face, Potter, I'm alright -" He paused, blinking rapidly, and visibly got hold of himself. "There wasn't any way to get away - there _wasn't_."

"I know," Harry said, when Malfoy didn't continue. "Nobody thinks you could have done differently. Nobody blames you."

"They should," Malfoy said sullenly. "I didn't try to run. I didn't protect Pansy. It should have been me that died."

"McGonagall said that you defended her."

"Not well enough, obviously," Malfoy replied, his mouth twisting. "She's still dead. It didn't make any difference, what I did."

Harry shook his head again. "You did better than most people would've." Malfoy said nothing. Harry pressed on. "Voldemort killed loads of people - even now most people are too scared to even say his name. Remember the World Quidditch Cup? Everyone was running away in a panic because your dad and his friends were torturing Muggles. Wizards weren't even the ones in danger and still everyone ran."

"I didn't," Malfoy said bitterly. "I never thought I'd have anything to fear from them. I knew most of them since I was a baby. And that's exactly why I'm such an idiot. I thought I was special - that I was one of them, maybe. And I didn't matter to them at all. That's how useless I am, Potter. I didn't matter even to my own father."

Malfoy was shaking. Harry put a careful hand on his shoulder, feeling helpless. "It wasn't your fault," he said.

Malfoy sneered at him and shook off Harry's hand. "That's easy for you to say, isn't it? You have no idea what it was like."

Harry put his hand back onto Malfoy's shoulder and squeezed hard. "It wasn't your fault," he said again. He didn't know what else to say.

Malfoy stared at him increduously. "Are you daft, Potter? Of course it bloody was! She was my friend, I should have protected her! What sort of - of weak, stupid person lets themselves be raped? I should have - I didn't want to - "

"It wasn't your fault" Harry said firmly, cutting him off. Malfoy went on, heedless, colour blossoming in his face. The sight of those hectic spots made Harry feel almost relieved.

"Shut up! You don't know anything about it! You'll never know what it felt like - my father sat over me the entire time they did it, just looked right into my face the entire time - I - oh _god._ " His breath was short and rapid, his eyes wide and fearful.

Harry put his other hand on Malfoy's shoulder, turning the other boy to face him. He could almost feel Malfoy breaking to pieces under his hand. "_It wasn't your fault._"

"Stop it, Potter," Malfoy whispered harshly. "Just leave me alone."

"It wasn't your fault," Harry said, and pulled Malfoy closer. "It _wasn't_ your fault."

"_No,_" Malfoy moaned. "Stop it. Fine. Say what you like. Fine. It wasn't my fault. I get it."

Harry wrapped his arms around Malfoy and drew him forward, until he was holding Malfoy close. He bent his head to Malfoy's ear and whispered softly, one final time, "It wasn't your fault."

A low sob escaped Malfoy, choked off as he flung a hand over his mouth. He sagged forward, and Harry caught him easily.

"But," he whispered. "Do you - do you promise?"

"I promise," Harry said, and Malfoy began to cry.

His whole body shook, great gulping sobs racking his thin frame. Fat, embarassing tears rolled down his face and fell onto Harry's socks and the bedspread underneath them. Harry held on helplessly, cradling Malfoy gingerly and not knowing what else to do. He rubbed Malfoy's back, cautiously, as he had seen Sirius do to Remus sometimes, when they sat together. Malfoy was still speaking, his words incoherent between harsh breaths. Harry listened hard, but couldn't understand a single word.

After a long time, Malfoy's tears slowed, and his breathing became more regular. Both hands gripped Harry's shoulders fiercely, which had surprised Harry; he hadn't seen Malfoy use his injured hand in weeks. The crown of Malfoy's skull was braced against Harry's collarbone, his face hidden behind his hair. Harry kept rubbing Malfoy's back, slowly, uncertain whether he should say anything else. He couldn't recall any other person, in all his life, crying on him or letting him comfort them. It was disconcerting, but obscurely, he felt a little proud: he had known what to say. He had helped Malfoy.

"I'm an utter idiot," Malfoy muttered. His voice was muffled against Harry's chest.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, thoughtfully passing him a bit of sheet to wipe his face with. "I think I like you anyway."

Malfoy lifted his head at that. They looked at each other in thoughtful silence. Malfoy rubbed a fist over his reddened eyes. Harry reached forward and wiped away a stray tear on Malfoy's cheek, and was pleased when Malfoy didn't move away. He stayed perfectly still as Harry's fingers skated over his skin, and simply stared at Harry. And so Harry stared back.

Harry wasn't used to looking at boys. Hell, he wasn't used to looking at _girls_ yet; everytime he had tried to talk to Cho last year, his stomach had gone queasy and his tongue had tripped all over itself. He had been miserable, confused and more than a little jealous at the Yule Ball, and had wished more than once that night that he could have spent the time in bed.

Malfoy's nose was too long and he was too pale and his chin was sharp and his cheeks a little hollow, but sometimes when he smiled it was a sort of lopsided smile and his teeth showed too much, and his eyes creased in a way that made him look a little daft but also weirdly endearing, and even though he was a prat and had made the last four years of Harry's life hell and the last few months the most confusing of his entire life ... Harry felt alright with that.

Because when he talked to Malfoy, or even when he thought of that particularly soft-looking stretch of skin right above Malfoy's hips, he was confused and annoyed, and sometimes Malfoy made him feel like the clumsiest, stupidest person alive and sometimes he made Harry feel like a king, and even though sometimes he wanted to hit Malfoy simply for existing ... he sort of liked it all. No - he liked it alot.

Malfoy was biting his lip, studying Harry's face with a rather intense expression that Harry was sure was mirrored on his own face. Malfoy's face was still red and blotchy from crying, and his hair was mussed from sleep. For his own part, Harry's eyes felt bloodshot and heavy, his hands were grimy from handling the murtlap, and he was sure that there was sand on him in places he didn't want to think about. They were both embarassed and exhausted, but when Malfoy leaned forward and kissed Harry on the mouth, Harry wasn't a bit surprised.

It wasn't what he had expected his first kiss to be like. Dean had had his first kiss at the end of third year, with an experienced Hufflepuff a year their senior. Seamus, Neville, Ron and Harry had listened jealously to Dean's description of the event, and all of them had snuck seperate peeks at the battered copy of _Sweaty Ball's Every-Flavour Fuck_ that Seamus had smuggled into school at the beginning of their fourth year. Harry's first kiss didn't make his huge member throb with desire, like the porno mag had so luridly described, and it didn't make him suddenly understand the world's beauty a bit better, as Dean claimed. It made him feel dazed and warm all over and slightly tingly in his fingers.

Malfoy pulled away, and Harry flexed his fingers surreptitiously at his sides. "Do that again," he said.

It was neater the second time, though they still bumped noses a bit. Malfoy's mouth was warm and a little wet and a little harder against his own than he had expected.

Malfoy opened his mouth first, tentatively running the tip of his tongue over Harry's bottom lip. Harry laughed, nervously, and was relieved when Malfoy laughed as well, and took his hand. They kissed with too much spit and clumsy teeth and Harry had to shut his eyes when Malfoy kissed the corner of his mouth, for fear that the strange little bubbles that had started just below his bellybutton would come leaping up from inside him and all the air in his lungs would go with it in a tremendous rush out of his body. Malfoy's hand was on his neck, and Harry's fingers were stroking that little bit of skin right above Malfoy's hips, and it was strange and scary and somehow, against everything he'd ever thought possible, totally and completely right.

-

It was almost too much to go inside the room where Sirius waited. Too much to mount the stairs, his feet of clay dragging after Harry's spry, apologetic stride. The air inside the house was nearly suffocating after the clean wind of the beach, the salt spray that felt as though it was scouring his sickness away. He wanted to shed his clothes, piece by piece as he moved through the house after Harry, go to Sirius naked and vulnerable, and hope that maybe that way, he'd be able to tear down his walls and open his mouth to tell the truth. Remus stood for what felt like ages with a palm pressed flat against the doorframe of his bedroom, listening with one ear as Harry began his apology, and wondering how the hell he could explain what he had hidden.

Sirius was awake when he finally opened the door. Remus eased himself into the room and closed the door behind softly him, bracing himself on its comforting surface. The sound of Sirius' breathing erased the world outside the room.

"I heard you leave," Sirius said, his voice as hoarse as it was that night when they'd met in the Shrieking Shack, after so many years. Remus slid forward, not trying to attempt a reply, words forming in his mind as he folded his body onto the bed, crawling on hands and knees until he reached Sirius' side. Sirius watched him wordlessly, expressionlessly as he settled, tucking his legs underneath his body unconsciously, as he had done as a teenager. Remus stared at his hands.

"I lost everything I had ever known in one night," Remus said softly. "You left me all alone. I hadn't had much, before that, but ... I didn't leave my flat for almost a month. I couldn't go anywhere. I couldn't function. I didn't even recognise myself anymore. And instead of healing, instead of dealing with my inability to cope with things that I couldn't change, I moved to Hong Kong and ignored everything."

Sirius shifted uneasily on the bed, moving a hand up to scratch his chest.

"I moved two or three times a year. I had friends, once in a while, but never for very long." Remus paused, smiling bitterly. "You see, Sirius, I've never grown up. I was already more grown-up when we were at school, and I just pretended that my experiences – the places I had lived in, the things I had seen – gave me wisdom, made me a more mature person. But that wasn't the case, was it? I've been passive-aggressive with you, manipulative of two boys who were entrusted to us, and ... I've been lying to you."

Remus hesitated, counting breaths. He could feel Sirius' gaze boring into him. He was shaking, bracing himself for whatever Remus was about to say. Remus ducked his head, his throat closing.

"I can't say it," he whispered. "Padfoot – I thought that if maybe nobody said it aloud, then I could pretend it wasn't true – I've had nothing for so long and suddenly I have a family and a home and you – "

Sirius lunged forward, cutting him off and pulling him off-balance into a breathless embrace. Remus let himself be lowered to the bed, pressed full length against the other man, knowing that he didn't deserve it.

"Just say it, Moony," Sirius whispered. His hand caressed Remus' cheek. "Whatever it is – we can beat it."

And Remus believed him.

And Remus' mouth was open, and he was speaking, before he realized that he could, after all, tear down his walls.

"I'm dying, Padfoot. Not – abstractly. But soon. They couldn't heal all of the damage that my body took during ... when I was captured. And it's only grown worse. I thought – I thought that I'd have more time ... I'm sorry," Remus whispered. He reached up and tangled his fingers in Sirius' hair, noting distantly that his hands were shaking. "Sirius – I am ... I'm so sorry ..."

"How - how long?" Sirius asked, his voice thick. Remus pressed his lips to Sirius' cheek and said nothing. He felt Sirius nod, slowly, absorbing. "Love you, Moony," he whispered.

Remus' vision stung. "Love you too, Padfoot. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for."

Sirius' skin was warm against his own where Remus' shirt had pulled up from his waist. Heat from Sirius' body leached into his own, surrounding him with a scent that went so far back in his memory it was like coming home. He could breathe again in the close air of his home, in the arms of his best friend.

"I am, regardless," Remus whispered. "Let me be indulgent in this, at least."

He felt something like a laugh shiver through Sirius' voice. "When have I ever let you get away with that"

"Never," Remus replied, and held Sirius tight.

"Damn right," Sirius said. "Never. So don't think for a minute that you have to do this on your own, you stubborn idiot. When I said we were going to beat it, I meant it - and I meant that we'd do it together. So stop being silly. We'll get through this - put Snape on the case or something. And don't say anything because I'm not crying anymore so it doesn't matter. Oh look now, don't you cry either. It will be fine. I promise."

Remus had always hated promises. He had promised himself many things over the years, and seemed to always let himself down. He had thought he'd stopped relying on other peoples' promises long ago, but was still getting hurt, still expecting so much more than he'd gotten in years. But as he buried his nose in Sirius' hair and Sirius' hands moved comfortingly over his face, he felt almost as though he had been washed away, carried adrift his vulnerability, the wounds that he had carelessly torn open in Sirius and himself slowly knitting back together as they held each other.

The sun rose, and the house slept, and so it goes.


	11. Casualties of War: When the Snow Comes

**Title:**Casualties of War: When the Snow Comes  
by **hansbekhart**  
**Rating:** PG-13 to mild R  
**Summary:**When the second war begins, Remus Lupin and Draco Malfoy are its first casualties. In which the snow comes and things come to an end, and we finally hear the gillyweed story.  
**Notes:** This chapter was meant to be the final chapter, but it's been split into two because I managed to max out the limit of LiveJournal posts. The lyrics sung are copyright of Tom Waits. I want to make sure and thank my wonderful, wonderful betas, **lildove42**, **aralias**, **frogslayr** and, returning in an odd Circle of Life sort of thing, **lilchickadee**. Thank you guys for sticking with me this long and putting up with all of my stupid mistakes. I really hope everyone enjoys this as much as they have the past chapters.

* * *

Draco found Remus walking along the edge of the cliffs, far outside the boundary of warm weather that kept the Farmhouse habitable. He fell in step silently beside the man that he'd never quite stopped thinking of as his professor, and they walked together in comfortable quiet. Draco liked being on the cliffs; the crash of the waves on the rocky beach below blocked out all other noise and brought back comfortable childhood memories of holidays on the Isle of Wight. The sky was a lovely grey that Draco had always loved; it was his mother's favourite weather. She had been known to say that any weather that made your cheeks pink couldn't be spoken ill of. 

Remus leaned heavily on his cane these days, and whenever they came upon loose stones underfoot, Draco offered an arm without thought. Sirius would have recognized the impulse; they had much in common when it came to manners. The Blacks always had excellent manners. Draco's mother had always blamed the Malfoy side of Draco's heritage for his temperament. Remus accepted wordlessly, allowing Draco to steady him as they made their way across Remus' land.

Remus settled unsteadily onto his favourite boulder. It overlooked the ocean from a particularly lonely vista, which appealed greatly to him in his more melodramatic moods. The waves crashed against ancient rocks and sent a fine, heady spray into the air. He watched the water swirl back, a quick pause before another wave, and tried to catch his breath. The icy wind from the shore dried the sweat on his face, and he shut his eyes gratefully as he tipped his head back. Draco sat next to him without a word, his thin arms wrapped around himself, shivering slightly in the cold.

Smiling, Remus pulled his wand from his pocket, casting a Warming Charm on them both. Draco quirked a grin at him.

It was August 12th, and Harry and Draco's fifth year would begin in a little more than two weeks. Remus had spoken with Albus that morning, discussing bringing the boys back to school. Voldemort's whereabouts were still unknown, and they knew little more about the curse that was laid upon Draco then they had at the beginning of the summer, but Albus had pointed out that they could hardly be safer anywhere else. Harry was excited about the prospect of returning to school; Draco was non-committal. Sirius was probably still talking with Albus, negotiating how often he and Remus could visit.

Remus hadn't had the will to ask how Severus' research was coming.

Draco had scooped up a handful of pebbles and was tossing them one by one off the cliff. He glanced at Remus surreptitiously now and then from the corner of his eyes. Remus kept his gaze fixed on the ocean, fighting a chuckle.

"Pansy had a crush on you in third year," Draco offered, at length. Remus blinked.

"Did she?" Remus laughed softly, blushing a bit.

Draco reached down for another handful of pebbles. "She would always make fun of me for being so ... obsessed with Harry. She said I liked him, that I was like a little boy pulling on the pigtails. She never put up with me saying bad things about you, though."

He lapsed into silence. Remus watched a pair of gulls, specks of colour against the rocks, play against the shore.

"Does it ever get any easier?" Draco asked. His voice was wistful.

"Does what get any easier?" Remus said. He tilted his head towards Draco.

"Missing them," Draco replied softly.

Remus sighed, and shifted closer to Draco, until their shoulders touched. Draco leaned into him without appearing to notice that he was doing so, unconsciously seeking comfort.

"No," Remus said quietly. "It doesn't really ever get easier."

Draco nodded, his eyes downcast. He twisted a pebble between his fingers. "I don't - don't want -" His face twisted, and he fell silent abruptly. "Professor Snape will save you," he said firmly. Remus didn't reply. He watched the wind whip the trees that dotted the shore as Draco choked on - tears? Frustration? Remus didn't know. He gave Draco the space, the respect, that he needed. Eventually, Draco quieted, straightening. If there were any tears on his face, the wind had dried them by the time Remus turned to look at him.

"The reason," Remus said carefully, holding Draco's gaze, "That stores of gillyweed are so closely watched is not because students might go and accidentally drown while using it, but because gillyweed causes hallucinations, or an ... altered state of consciousness if smoked, or," here Remus coughed slightly, "baked into something like cookies or brownies."

Draco looked interested.

"I was at school during the seventies, which you might know was a very, er, interesting time to be young." Remus paused. "You won't go breaking into the Potions stores when you return to Hogwarts, will you?"

Draco shook his head emphatically, looking affronted.

Remus smiled. "Well. In that case, I believe you've been asking to hear a certain story."

Draco grinned broadly, and Remus couldn't help but grin back.

* * *

They had a roast that night, and Draco insisted on calling it 'roast beast' throughout the dinner no matter, or possibly because of, how hard Harry laughed. Draco was in fine form that night, trading juvenile Muggle jokes with Sirius and regaling them with tales of horror from the Slytherin dungeons. Harry choked twice on his mashed potatoes from laughing too hard, and on the second time they were promptly annexed by Draco and claimed as part of Dracotopia. Dracotopia then went on an orgy of nation-building, invading the peaceful lands of Moon Island, devastating the armies of the Republic of Dogbreath, until it was fought to a standstill by the brave warriors of Pottyland, which immediately renamed itself as the Kingdom of Harry, only to be mocked for lack of imagination. Afterwards, Remus doled out a good supply from his chocolate hoarde as the spoils of war to all participants, in a fit of generosity. 

They retired to the den after Harry and Sirius cleaned up the dinner dishes, and the boys squabbled over what music to play while Sirius built a fire. Remus sat patiently on his ancient couch, surveying the room with his hands folded in his lap and a quiet gleam in his eyes, feeling rather like a king. The sounds that serended him ran the spectrum of his record collection. Harry and Draco compromised on Charles Mingus ("With a name like that, we have to listen to it," argued Draco) not a minute before _Morrison Hotel_ was discovered and declared to be superior. Sirius sat with Remus on the couch in a warm silence, his fingers twined with Remus' own. He fetched mugs of cocoa (and tea for himself) when _Surrealistic Pillow_ was put aside in favor of _Rubber Soul_, and when Billie Holiday was settled on, he asked Remus to dance.

Harry was lying stretched out on the floor by this time, his empty mug forgotten on the hearth. Draco was curled over piles of records next to Harry, the two of them pressed together in a quite incidental way. Draco's bandaged hand rested lightly on Harry's bare foot. Harry's arm curved around Draco's hip. Remus and Sirius had been concerned at first, when they had gone outside one morning to see the two boys in a rather compromising position.

Remus had taken it rather more calmly than Sirius, who demanded answers to embarrassing and personal questions, which Draco refused to answer on principle. Harry, who turned so red that Remus had thought the poor boy would simply keel over from embarrassment, patiently let them know that no, they hadn't gone any further than kissing, and yes, they would come to one of them if he or Draco had questions. They each found time to speak to the boys separately that day: Remus sequestered Draco to ask if he was alright even being in a physical relationship. Draco stared at the ground and replied in a hard voice that he hadn't had the chance to find out yet, but he'd consider letting Remus know when he did. Sirius fared better in his interrogation of Harry, and enjoyed a rather amusing conversation about first kisses.

"I asked him what it was like," he had told Remus later that day. "He said to me, 'wet.'"

That had been three days ago, and Remus was surprised and pleased to observe that not only did a youthful romance not seem to be doing Harry and Draco any harm, it actually seemed to be rather good for them. Sirius, oddly enough, was quite pleased. He had become quieter in the past few days, since Remus had told him the bleak truth he had been hiding. He touched Remus often, and when they made love it was as though decades of fear, loneliness and resentment had been stripped away, and Remus felt more vulnerable and more loved than he ever had in his life.

All in all, Remus thought contentedly as Sirius took his hand and led him to the center of the room, clearing space for them with his wand, there wasn't much else he could wish for.

Sirius was warm and familiar in his arms. He was shorter, broader in the chest than Remus was, as he'd been since puberty joined their band of friends. Remus had been the tallest of their group, followed by James, gangly and boney and always looking slightly malnourished. Remus' arms went around Sirius' shoulders, and Sirius' arms went around his waist, and they swayed together as Billie Holiday sang of heartbreak and loss behind them. He rested his cheek against the crown of Sirius' skull, sinking into Sirius' smell with the faintest hint of a happy sigh.

"Love you, Moony," Sirius murmured against his neck.

"I love you too, Padfoot," Remus whispered back.

"Dumbledore says we can visit on Hogsmeade weekends, but that's all," Sirius grumbled. A hand stroked restlessly down Remus' back. "We don't even get special privileges for Draco - although he did admit that we should set up some sort of alert, in case there's trouble."

"Mm," Remus said, running his nails lightly over the back of Sirius' neck. Sirius let out a surprised, happy bark of laughter. "Don't tell me you won't love having the house to ourselves again - without those noisy little beasts hanging about?"

"I heard that," came the haughty reply from the floor. "You're dirty old men, both of you. That's all."

"Guilty as charged," Sirius replied, smiling into Remus' eyes. "And proud of it."

Remus laughed and swung Sirius into an ostentatious dip, heedless of the aches of his body. Their lips met on the way back up, pressing warm and soft, the slightest touch of teasing tongues.

"Yuck," was the laughing response from the peanut gallery. "Get a room."

"Draco," Sirius said patiently, "Shove it."

A swift pain in his chest prevented Remus from making a witty retort, but he masked his involuntary, shocked pause with a twist of his hips and a kiss. The thought flashed bright across his mind: _Is this it?_ He pushed the thought away immediately, holding Sirius tight in response. The fire roared happily on the hearth, and against everything he thought possible, he was surrounded by people he would be proud to call his family, and nothing was going to intrude on that.

Pain grew and shifted inside his torso, a wet, wrenching discomfort, and as Remus closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of the man he loved in his arms, the sleepy chatter of their boys, the fire at their back, his only chance to live through the night drifted away on Billie Holiday's mournful voice.

* * *

It was over quickly.

Sirius was awakened by Remus' breathing. Remus had pulled away from him during the night, and was curled in on himself on the opposite side of the bed. His pyjama bottoms were soaked with sweat. His breathing was labored, thick, painful to hear. Sirius reached for Remus and almost jerked his hand back when he felt how cold the other man's skin was. "Moony," Sirius whispered, panic flaring to life in his chest.

Remus stirred. Sirius reached forward again, sitting up at the same time he turned Remus over, gathering the other man into his arms. "Moony," he said again, his throat tight. Remus opened his eyes.

His eyes shone in the moonlight, disconcertingly serene despite the glaze of pain across them, the way he struggled to breathe. Sirius pressed a hand to Remus' cheek.

"I'm here," he said softly. "Just breathe. You're alright. You're going to be just fine."

Remus grimaced. His body contorted in silent spasms. He drew in hideous, wracking breaths. "Padfoot," he rasped. "I - will -"

"Shhhh," Sirius said. He pulled Remus gently upright, manipulating his limbs as easily as those of a sleeping child. He pulled Remus up against his own body until they were sitting back to chest, Remus sprawled between his legs. "Breathe with me. Can you feel me breathing?"

Remus sucked in a long hiss of air, his shoulders twitching against Sirius' collarbone. Sirius lay his cheek against Remus' clammy skin. His mind raced, hurtled through ideas and remedies and the knowledge that he had never seen Remus like this before. Remus' fingers tightened painfully on his legs, and Sirius winced.

"Easy, Moony. Do it with me. In. Out."

He could feel Remus struggling to comply, his chest rising bare centimeters before hitching, breath stalled before it could do him any good. Remus shook with the effort, his thin body twisting helplessly.

"I've seen you beat worse than this," Sirius whispered. "You can get through this. I know you can. It's ok. It's ok. In and out. In and out. You can do it."

Remus' ribs fell beneath his hand and stopped. Sirius' heart seized, and didn't unclench when it finally rose. _He's going to suffocate if this goes on._

He shifted Remus again, gently, letting his left arm bear most of the other man's weight while his other hand turned Remus' face towards his own. Sirius dipped his head and pressed his lips to Remus', sealing their mouths together. Slowly, his fingers still pressed against Remus' unresisting jaw, he breathed out, feeling Remus' lungs fill with his oxygen.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Over and over. Remus' fingers twitched against his leg. There was no sound save the muted, panicked rush of air between them.

It was on the ninth breath that the blood came, Remus choking and Sirius jerking back in shock before he could help himself. Blood was in his mouth and dripping down his chin, and Sirius gagged. Remus gasped, able to breathe again but with blood bubbling past his lips and down his body.

"Oh _god_," Sirius said, and Remus looked at him, eyes unwavering, unafraid. "Please no," Sirius said. He reached blindly and pulled at the sheet beneath them, wiping away blood that was far too bright, too vivid in the moonlight. "Oh, Moony," he whispered, and Remus reached trembling fingers to touch his face.

"I will walk with you," Remus whispered, his voice raw, "always."

"No," Sirius moaned. He pulled Remus close, awkwardly, Remus' long legs akimbo atop his own, stroking Remus' back and neck. "Please, Remus - I can't lose you. I'm not ready for it. Just - stay with me, I know you can beat this. Hold on. Snape - Snape will think of something."

Remus only looked at him silently, his eyes creased at the corner in the barest hint of a smile. Sirius sucked in a long breath and placed a hand on Remus' chest, over his heart. "I can't," he said softly. "I can't let you go. I couldn't survive without you - oh Moony - please ... hold on ..."

Sirius could have talked for hours, meaningless words spilling from his lips and falling like rain onto Remus' upturned face. He sang, old songs that he pulled from the dusty corners of his memory, songs that had meant something to Remus when they were young, when they were Marauders and not just Remus and Sirius, alone. His voice trembled and broke, humming and skating over random Led Zeppelin melodies, the lyrics immaterial anyway. Words failed him as the light in Remus' eyes faded, but he held on grimly, giving everything to keep Remus with him ... just a little while longer.

"I'll shoot the moon, right out of the sky, for you baby -

"I'm here Moony, you don't - don't have to be scared because I won't let you go, not ever - for, for you baby -

"I'll be the pennies on your eyes, for you baby ...

"I won't let you go ... you looked so gorgeous tonight, did you know that? I couldn't help looking at you ... I love you so much that it hurts sometimes ..."

"I want to take you, out to the fair ... here's a red - red ribbon for your hair ..."

Words cannot halt the passage of time; they cannot hold back life. The moon passed unheeding overhead, gold eyes dimmed, and slowly, inevitably, only silence remained.

Some events, regardless of the anticipation, how long you eagerly await or dread them, and in spite of any desperate efforts of prevention, arrive suddenly and can cripple in their wake, maim in the echo of a whimper reverberating through a house that would ever after feel empty and bereft.

Harry had still been awake when that single cry seemed to shake the Farmhouse down to its foundations. He would think, later, that it had. It was a soft sound that nevertheless drew every nerve in his body to attention, praying that his first thought had been wrong. In his own bed, Draco shot upright, his eyes wild and overbright. They looked at each other without speaking.

Years later, when the pain and confusion that closed his summer with Remus Lupin, Sirius Black and Draco Malfoy had faded and become distant, it was always that moment that stood out in Harry's mind, frozen in his memory: when Draco looked at him through the hurt puzzlement of being abruptly jolted from sleep and grey light filtered through their window in a way that looked nearly tangible. What came later became a series of staccato images, bloody and blinding, and it was weeks before he stopped moving long enough for the weight of grief to catch up with him.

Draco's mouth opened, hesitantly, and a look of understanding began to dawn on his face, and Harry looked at him and thought how stupid he had been to ever think that Draco's eyes were silver: they were the palest of greys, the colour of the fog on the waves that morning he had gone with Remus to hunt for murtlap, soft and almost warm in the moonlight.

They heard Sirius hit the wall as his heavy footsteps stumbled towards their bedroom, and Draco jumped. Sirius loomed in the doorway, his frame a darker shape in the shadows of the hallway. Harry swayed towards him, involuntarily, feeling the muscles in his thighs jump.

Sirius said nothing. He didn't need to.

Draco cried out, a low, animal-noise of physical pain. Harry knew his mouth hung open, and his eyes were locked with Sirius'. Sirius' wasn't crying either, his clear eyes in a place beyond shock or emotion. Draco cried out again, a hiccoughing sort of sob this time.

Remus Lupin was dead, and nothing they had done made any difference.

Harry didn't see Sirius leave. He turned towards Draco and opened his arms. Draco crawled across their beds to him, stiffly allowing Harry to draw him into an embrace. "No," Draco whispered fiercely. "Professor Snape was going to _save_ him. He can't ... he can't just ..."

Harry watched, distantly, as rage and anguish washed over Draco's features, and wondered if he'd ever feel anything but numb to death. Only months ago, he had sat in stunned silence after Cedric's death and his battle with Voldemort, and watched one of the only adults he'd ever come to trust transform back into Voldemort's most loyal follower. He almost felt like there should be some sort of coda, some explanation from Dumbledore to draw the curtain on another life given to The Cause.

_But Remus **didn't** die for anything great_, Harry thought furiously. He had only been unlucky enough to live through their first losses, and if it hadn't been for Snape he would have died anyway, alone and in agony. Remus was given a second chance only to have it all taken away again.

_It wasn't **fair**_, Harry thought, and struggled to keep from yelling it aloud. Draco was breaking before him, his fury giving way to shock. They drew together almost unconsciously, sinking back onto Harry's bed as the first angry tears appeared in Draco's eyes, pulling closer and closer, tangling limbs and words as skin met skin and there was no space for grief between them at all.

* * *

Draco lay with his face buried in the crook of Harry's neck and thought that maybe if he stayed perfectly still, the world might stay the way it was. He hadn't slept. His face felt puffy and sticky with tears. His left arm had gone numb long ago underneath Harry's waist, and his right was a pulsing ache against his chest. Their legs had tangled together, and his toes were cold, but even in sleep Harry's arms were tight around him and Harry's neck was warm and real against his cheek. 

It was with no thought in his head that he carefully untangled his limbs from Harry's. He sat up slowly, running his tongue over his teeth, and it was a long moment before he could collect himself. Harry shifted in his sleep, reaching out blindly for Draco. Draco pulled the blankets over him instead, and stood on unsteady legs. Distantly, his eyes unfocused, he shrugged on the weathered, moth-eaten robe that Remus had brought to him in the woods, weeks earlier. Around his neck went the scarf that Professor Snape had given him.

Sirius was sitting with his head in his hands at the foot of the stairs. He raised his head when Draco approached, and they stared at each other across a gulf of silence. There wasn't anything to say. Sirius didn't ask if Draco was alright, and Draco didn't ask if Sirius had slept at all. And so, after a pause, Draco moved on. He drifted outside, conscious only of the wind against his face and the sounds he couldn't help but listen for: the rustle of pages being turned, the murmer of the tea kettle. The silence settled heavily in his stomach. He swayed, scowling up at the sky, muffled under drifts of snow, as serene as though nothing important had happened during the night, nothing at all.

Mindlessly, he moved forward, stumbling. He was barefoot, and the swift pain of the long grass cutting the thin, unblemished skin of his ankles and feet was almost a relief. He paused at the edge of the Farmhouse's wards. The sun beat down cheerfully on his back. Millimetres from his nose, snowflakes drifted by. His breath was visible on the other side. Draco closed his eyes as he stepped through.

He always expected to feel something whenever he left the Farmhouse's enclosed atmosphere. Some tickle of magic or gentle shock. Some of the rooms of Malfoy Manor would shock a person a bit, the wards around certain objects adjusting themselves to whoever had entered the room. His mother had charmed her fireplace to light and the phonograph to play when she entered her rooms. Leaving Remus' home had no affect, no change, and Draco felt almost disappointed as he stared up into the sky that was as real as the one he had just left, blinded by snow, the hem of his robe turning damp as his bare feet sunk into the snow.

Draco wrapped his arms around himself, shivering violently. He had lost weight, despite all efforts, since arriving at the Farmhouse. His hair whipped carelessly about his face. A few yards away, buried nearly to its shoulders, a Dingwall Gin raised its head and turned its mournful eyes on him. Smoke drifted from its nostrils. Draco stared back, uncomfortably reminded of the dull emptiness in Sirius' gaze, sitting alone on the stairs as irrevocable hours passed. When the Gin turned away, Draco took a half step towards it and faltered, and that was when his heart broke.

A sharp cry escaped him, and for a moment his shivering stopped, his body frozen in shock that he could actually _feel_ his heart breaking and running like melted wax down his body. Even as stinging pain raced up and down his spine and his fingers and face turned numb, he curled in on himself, crossing his arms over his chest, his mouth stretched wide in a silent, agonized howl.

_This is it,_ he thought incoherently. _This is the end. Finally._ His eyes slipped closed.

And this is how it ends:

The world held its breath. In that pause, aware somewhere in his mind that all sound and scent and feeling was gone, pain so sudden and intense that his breath was literally stolen away lanced up his right arm. As the world breathed out, Draco did as well, a shocked expulsion of air escaping his lungs. The agony of his burned arm was worse than when Pansy was burned alive, clutching the same hand even after death took her. It was worse than the beating and rape that had come before it.

But even as his eyes blurred with involuntary tears, he felt the rush of displaced air against his body, heard the sharp crack of several people Apparating, and even agony worse than he'd ever imagined possible was overwhelmed instantly by terror.


	12. Casualties of War: Endings and Understan...

**Title:** Casualties of War: Endings and Understandings  
**Author:** **hansbekhart**  
**Rating:** R for graphic violence, mention of sexual violence  
**Summary:** When the Second War begins, Remus Lupin and Draco Malfoy are its first casualties. In which secrets are revealed, decisions are made and friends avenged.  
**Notes:** And now we come to the end ... it's been an incredibly long and strange journey for me, and I'm so honored that anybody bothered to hang around with me through it. My list was beginning to look like an Oscar award speech, so I've stuck it down in the bottom so not to clutter up people's flists or comms. But thank you, everybody. And thanks to my betas, **lildove42**, **aralias**, **frogslayr** and **lilchickadee**.

* * *

Harry was out of bed and on his feet almost before he was even awake. He swayed and nearly stumbled, hazy and uncertain of what woke him and why his heart was hammering wildly against his ribs. Then Draco screamed again, and explanations ceased to matter. 

Harry grabbed his wand off of the nightstand and was out the door in an instant, not bothering or even thinking of grabbing shoes or a coat. He skidded as he hit the bottom of the stairwell, sliding in his socks, nearly crashing into the front door. His arms flailed, seeking balance, and Sirius hit him from behind, materializing and catching Harry under the arms, propelling him forward. They hit the back door at the same time.

The first thing Harry saw was Draco, running blindly towards them. Beside Harry, Sirius growled, and Harry looked beyond the other boy's figure to see the dark shapes moving towards them.

Draco barreled into him at the same time Harry's scar exploded with pain. They went down in a tangle of limbs, and Harry's skull knocked painfully against the doorframe. Dimly, he heard Sirius shouting, his words unintelligible over the prey-animal beat of Draco's heart.

Voldemort and his Death Eaters advanced on them, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. With every step, the sunshine and warm air that protected the Farmhouse melted away. The grass grew black and died under his feet. An icy wind burned its way towards them, chilling Harry immediately but clearing his head. He grabbed Draco by the shoulders and forced him to his feet, pushing him into the house. "Sirius?" he asked, not taking his eyes away from Voldemort.

"Yeah," Sirius grunted. It was a reply to everything Harry couldn't find the words to: I'm here, I'm ready, I'm with you. Sirius stepped forward, off the stoop and onto the grass, already growing thick with snow. Harry's eyes burned.

Voldemort halted some distance away. He chuckled softly in what had been his throat, and at the sound of that shrill, satisfied laughter, Harry felt Draco's left hand grab his shoulder and clench painfully.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort said. His lips drew back to reveal sharp, yellow teeth. "How wonderful to see you again."

Harry gripped his wand tighter and said nothing. He was vaguely aware that Sirius had moved to shield him in the same way that Harry was shielding Draco.

"So you've finally crawled out from your hole," Sirius rasped.

Voldemort glanced at him with mild interest. "We're here to take back a few items that ... belong to me," he said. "Step aside, Black. Certainly there are more worthy causes to defend than a puling child."

"Sirius," Draco said urgently, still gripping Harry's shoulder. "Sirius, we have to get help. The Floo is disconnected. That Muggle thing in the den doesn't work. How can we reach help?"

Sirius didn't even turn to look at them. "We can't."

"Your isolation works against you, Black," Voldemort purred. "I was delighted to hear that you had taken young Malfoy into your home after we had finished with him, and even more so to hear that Potter here would be joining you as well. It was more than I had hoped for, to be able to gain more power than I had ever dreamed of, and be rid of my greatest enemy in a single move."

"Afraid we don't follow," Sirius said through his teeth. He moved forward half a step, his wand ready. Voldemort smiled indulgently, the black-robed creatures behind him forming into a loose half-circle, boxing them in. A tight band of terror seized Harry around the chest and squeezed. He fought to breathe, the lines of memory blurring with the present: he had been encirled just that way in the graveyard, bleeding and pushed to his feet and told to fight as shadowy robed figures looked on.

"Every god demands sacrifice of his followers," Voldemort said. "Sacrifices of their most treasured things. Even though the Christian god recanted and spared Isaac's life, he still made the demand. I am not as weak, to allow my followers to indulge themselves. Lucius was more than happy to give his only son over to me."

One of the Death Eaters detached itself from the circle, drawing close to Voldemort's side. "Yes," Voldemort continued. "It was a curse, as I believe you have guessed by now. A rather ingenious one, if I may say so. I'm afraid you're not likely to have heard of it, Black ... they don't teach it in Hogwarts, and you've been rather unfortunately prevented from higher learning, haven't you?"

"Enlighten me, then," Sirius said. The snowfall was soaking through his clothes, matting down his hair. "I can tell that you've been dying to share your evil plans at your moment of triumph."

Voldemort nodded, still smiling. The snow and wind seemed not to touch him at all, though the servant beside him clutched his own robes close against the wind. "It touches me to see someone who can still appreciate a bit of melodrama. Lucius has cast the charming Brond Atol curse on his son. It is a thing of beauty, Black; you create an experience of absolute human suffering, seal the wound with fire, and the body acts as a living hot house, nurturing the seed we've planted with every emotion that the soul feels. When you pull the seed out, it brings everything that it has collected with it. I'm told it is quite a spectacle to witness."

Harry reached behind him blindly, groping for Draco's hand. Draco's palm was sweaty and his fingers trembled, but he stood his ground behind Harry. "You're going to have to get through us first," Harry said.

Voldemort's thin lips curled back, revealing sharp teeth. "I was rather hoping that would be the case. Tell me - where is the werewolf? Was it his demise that finally broke the seal of the seed? What a pity. I was looking forward to ... renewing our aquaintance."

Sirius launched himself forward with a roar, and Harry hesitated, torn between protecting Draco and helping Sirius. A greedy sort of sigh rippled through the ring of Death Eaters. Voldemort lifted a hand to hold them back, as the Death Eater at his side rushed forward to meet Sirius. Jets of light ricocheted harmlessly as they blocked and attacked. Sirius' voice was raw as he shouted spells and dodged a jet of green light.

Draco's fingernails clawed suddenly into Harry's palm, and Harry bit back a yelp and tried to pull away. Draco's terrified, pale face floated ghost-like in the corner of his vision. "Dad," Draco whispered.

"_Dad!_" he screamed, and as one, the combatants turned. The Death Eater's wand twitched towards them, but even before Harry could convince his body to get Draco and himself out of the way, a jet of light hit the Death Eater on the shoulder, spinning him around and flinging him bonelessly into the snow.

There was a hushed, sudden silence. Harry's breathing was harsh in his own ears. Sirius looked over his shoulder at them, his wand still extended from where it had struck the Death Eater down. "Alright?" he panted, and Harry nodded. He was still looking into Sirius' eyes when the beam of red light hit Sirius directly in the chest.

Sirius' eyes widened, just a little bit. He fell without a sound and lay unmoving, face down in the glittering snow. The Death Eater he had been dueling had recovered, and stood unsteadily in the snow, his mask askew. With an impatient gesture, he tore it off, revealing long blond hair and furious grey eyes.

Voldemort began to laugh. It started as a quiet hiss in his chest and escalated, growing louder and louder until Harry could feel it splintering his skull apart, right underneath his scar. He squinted his eyes against the waves of pain sending shocks rippling through his spine, his eyes trained on Sirius' body. He couldn't tell if Sirius was alright - if he was still alive.

Gradually, he became aware of a curious vibration building just behind him, a sort of yellow-green behind his eyelids. It hurt, almost, to look at: vibrating waves of hot light. Even Voldemort seemed to sense it; his laughter grew even more crazed, and he extended his arms wide, as though welcoming the sickness that was hidden at the heart of that light. Harry stared in confusion, his brain realising where the colour could only be coming from a fraction of a second too late.

Draco snatched Harry's wand from his hand and darted around him, his voice lifted in a howl. "I will kill you!" he screamed. Harry took off after him, running hard, shouting desperately for Draco to stop. Lucius Malfoy faced his son head on, his face a mask. Harry's heart clenched the closer Draco got to Voldemort, who stood almost passively between the father and child, and he spurred himself on faster, his hand outstretched.

"Suspendo!" Voldemort shouted, when Harry and Draco were only yards away. Harry felt himself violently yanked off his feet, his hands pulled upward over his head, wrists locked together. He hung helplessly, his feet mere inches from the ground. A short distance in front of him, Harry could see Draco kicking and thrashing at his own invisible bonds. He was still screaming, his voice breaking, foul words that Harry had never heard him use spewing out of his mouth.

Voldemort approached, Malfoy close behind him. His wand was loose at his side; his posture relaxed and confident. He drew close to Draco, whose screams ceased abruptly. He tried to pull away as Voldemort reached for him, grasping his chin in a bony claw.

"Leave him alone!" Harry shouted.

Voldemort paused, and drew a fingernail down Draco's cheek in a thoughtful caress. "Why Potter, I had no idea you felt so tenderly towards the boy."

Draco began to cry, softly, little gasping sobs Harry's only clue. He could only see Draco's face when the other boy twisted a certain way, or flung his head back; each faintly muffled sniffle or gulp drew a haze around his vision. "Now, now," Voldemort said soothingly, ignoring Harry's outrage. "Don't fret. It will all be over in just a moment." His fingers clenched around Draco's chin and he twisted Draco's head around. "Watch closely, Potter," he said. "I'd like for you to see this."

He tightened his hold on Draco's jaw, forcing his mouth open. Draco's eyes clenched shut, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. Dimly, Harry heard himself shouting, threatening Voldemort, but the Dark Lord spared him only a single, victorious glance as he dipped skeletal fingertips between Draco's lips, probing the boy's mouth deeper and deeper. Draco choked, nearly convulsing.

"Ah," Voldemort purred contentedly. "Lucius, I have found it." He withdrew his fingers, glistening with mingled saliva and blood. Draco coughed violently, his eyes still shut tight. Harry struggled against his bonds, desperate to be free, to hurt Voldemort as much as possible for what he'd done.

"Let him go, Voldemort!" Harry shouted again. "I won't try and fight you - just leave him alone!"

Voldemort turned towards him, surveying Harry with a cold eye. "You're in no position to bargain. I will deal with you as soon as I've destroyed this child."

In his hand, he held what he had referred to as his 'seed,' implanted within Draco's body months ago. It was the size of a peach pit and similar in texture, slightly corroded and a mottled silver in colour. It glinted and shone even as the snow grew thicker in the air. Harry could see Draco track its movements as Voldemort withdrew from them, holding it aloft. The other boy was trembling all over. Harry could feel his shoulders beginning to ache; his fingers were tingling painfully.

"Draco," he called. "It's ok. You'll be ok. I'm right here."

Draco twisted his head around, looking at Harry over his shoulder. His face was stained with tears, flecks of blood and bile dotting his mouth. His lips looked as though they were turning blue in the cold. "Harry," he rasped. "Tell my mother. I want her to know what happens."

"You tell her yourself," Harry replied, struggling to remain calm. "Don't give up on me, alright?"

Draco's mouth twitched. It could almost have been a smile. His eyes searched Harry's face with a frightening intensity, as though he was trying to memorize Harry's features. Harry stared back, trying to reassure with his eyes. Time felt frozen, dependant on a madman, and they hung helpless in the wind and snow, not even daring to breathe. Harry's lips parted; his breath misted in front of his face. Panic rose in a choke-hold, and he realised abruptly that there was a very real possibility that all of them would die that day. Remus' body lay upstairs, Sirius could already be dead for all that Harry knew. Harry and Draco were helpless. Would Voldemort's Brond Atol Curse kill Draco instantly? Or would it leave him alive but lifeless, as though he had been given the Dementors' kiss? Harry could see the uncertainty, the terror on Draco's face reflecting his own. He felt it spiraling out of control, a living force that grew and breathed, and he fought madly against it. He had survived Voldemort three times before, and he'd be _damned_ if he'd give up now. There _had_ to be a way out.

Voldemort was chanting, the seed oustretched towards Draco. The wind gathered and danced around him, its howl building into a crescendo. Harry's eyes flickered back and forth between it and Draco, whose gaze was still turned towards him.

"I don't -" Draco said softly, his voice stuttering over the words. "I - Harry, I don't want to see it."

"Look at me then," Harry said. His throat closed, and he had to swallow before he could speak, tears pricking his eyes. "Look at me instead. You'll be ok." Draco blinked rapidly, his eyes glazed.

Abruptly, Draco stiffened. Harry's eyes darted back to Voldemort. The seed was held a few inches from his face, his other hand stretched towards Harry and Draco, fingers splayed. Slowly, his cheeks hollowing, he drew in another long breath. Draco went rigid, his eyes shut tight and his teeth bared. Grinning freely now, his delight turning into a hammer inside Harry's skull, Voldemort breathed in the faint glow of the seed, igniting that glow into a silver, blinding flame.

Draco's skin bulged, bruises blossoming in the instant before it split apart, thin cuts appearing in hundreds of places across his face, hands, ankles, every visible part of him. Dark stains began to blossom through his cloak and run through his hair. Slowly, as blood flowed down his cheeks, streams of light squeezed out of the wounds, moving through the fabric of his clothing, drawn to the seed that the Dark Lord held. Draco's fingertips stretched towards the sky, his spine contorted in an angle that was painful even to see, but even though his mouth was stretched wide, his lips pulled back over his gums, blood coating his teeth and lips, he was completely silent.

And so Harry screamed for him.

Over and over, until his throat was raw and the Death Eaters were howling with laughter and Draco's head hung bonelessly on his neck and he was limp and unmoving, and Harry's head felt that it would explode with the triumph that swelled from Voldemort and washed over him.

The seed's flame leapt up and around Voldemort's right arm, coating him in silver light. He was as silent as Draco, his arm stretched taut. Lucius Malfoy had taken up his place at Voldemort's side again, his eyes on his son, the wind whipping his long hair about his face. Harry felt frozen, the muscles in his shoulders turning to screaming agony. He couldn't tell if Draco was still breathing, blood dripping from his bare feet in fat, frightening drops to pool in the snow beneath him. Harry's wand lay just outside of the rapidly spreading stain, dropped by Draco's numbed fingers. Sirius' wand was likely still near his body. Draco had never had a wand since he had come to the Farmhouse. They were defenseless.

Voldemort exhaled in a long, pleasured sigh. The seed's flame had enveloped nearly his entire body, obscuring his form in sinuous twists of light. "_Centuries_ of history in this blood," he purred, drawing his wand again with his free hand. He turned towards Harry. "What shall it be, Harry? Would you like to watch me kill your friend? Or would you prefer to sacrifice yourself first? Shall we make it quick, or would either of you like to suffer heroically?"

"Go to hell," Harry spat. Did he hear Sirius stirring, behind them? Or was that only a foolish hope?

Voldemort smiled. "Suffering it is, then. Why don't we see if the young lord can withstand Cruciatus as well as you can." His wand lifted, wreathed in the fire that had lain dormant in Draco's body.

"No!" Harry screamed.

"Crucio!" Voldemort shouted. The light of the Curse shot towards them. It cut through the snowflakes that drifted in the air between them. The Death Eaters swayed forward, their wands lifted, hands spread. The skin of their palms was red in the cold air. At the Dark Lord's side, Lucius Malfoy's fists were clenched, his face white.

All of this Harry saw and absorbed in the fraction of a moment it took for the Curse to reach them. The drip of blood onto snow was deafening in his ears, drowning out all hope of hearing Sirius stir or come to their rescue. He forced his eyes to stay open, some part of his brain insisting that he owed it to Draco, to see what was done to him, to catalogue every hurt that was done to the Slytherin.

It never came.

For an instant, the world became a bright, violent crimson, resolving into a shimmering barrier as Harry, startled, tried to blink it away. The light of Voldemort's Curse struck the shield and bounced away, scattering the Death Eaters that encircled them. Voldemort took a hesitant step back, surprise written in his eyes.

There was a sickening wrench in Harry's torso, and it seemed almost that something passed _through_ him: an enormous red shape that passed through the barrier, breaking the bonds that held Harry and Draco above the ground as it did so. They fell hard to the ground, Harry tumbling ungracefully to his knees. Beside him, Draco moaned as he hit the snow, his fingers digging fitfully into the white powder. Harry crawled to him, unspeakably relieved. He turned Draco over and wrapped both arms around him, unmindful of the blood that smeared onto his hands and face.

Voldemort screamed, high and long, and the red wolf - for that was indeed what it was: a red wolf made of light that was easily triple the size of a true wolf - charged him with terrifying speed, knocking him to the ground. There seemed to be Death Eaters everywhere, shouting and running to their master's aid, but too afraid to cast a spell. Harry held Draco tighter, still protected by the bubble of light that had appeared without warning when Voldemort had cast the Cruciatus curse. Draco stirred weakly in his arms, gulping air like a small child about to cry.

"Harry," he cried, over and over, "Harry Harry Harry -"

"I've got you," Harry whispered harshly, gently laying a trembling hand to Draco's cheek, afraid to press too deeply on the wounds that covered his face. Dark robed figures began to surround them, hovering as close as the barrier would allow, wands pointed directly at the boys. Harry shifted Draco closer, unconciously lifting a hand to shield him from seeing what was going on. Beyond the ring of Death Eaters, Voldemort had partially regained his feet; the wolf had backed away, poised to attack once more. Voldemort was crouched, wand ready, and Harry saw with astonishment that the right sleeve of his robes was torn and empty. A thick and clotted red substance was oozing from the place that his arm had been.

Draco jerked hard and nearly tore himself from Harry's grip. Startled, Harry glanced back down. Draco's eyes were wide, his pupils dilated so wide that his eyes were nearly swallowed up with black. Blood was still leaking from the wounds that covered his whole body, sticky against Harry's hands. "Fuck," Draco said distinctly. "What - Harry - why are we laying in the snow? I am _freezing_."

"Don't move too much," Harry said, when Draco tried to sit up. "Are you alright?"

There was a glitter in Draco's eyes that was quite unsettling. "Peachy," he said, his voice raw. "I'm still breathing, after all. That counts for something, I'd imagine."

Harry felt an oddly hysterical bubble of laughter rising in his chest, and kissed Draco on the mouth before it could escape. "We're still in trouble. My wand's out there, with them."

Draco's brow furrowed. His eyes squeezed tight, as though he was fighting exhaustion, and opened again. "Where is my scarf?" he demanded. "Is that out there with it?"

"I guess so," Harry said slowly. "There are Death Eaters too, though. We've got more important things to worry about, Draco. And you shouldn't be going anywhere. Stay here. I think maybe I can - make a break for it. Grab my wand. It's right outside the bubble thing."

Draco studied him closely. Absently, he reached up and twisted his fingers through Harry's hair. Harry tried not to flinch away. "What is this red thing? Do you think that it would move with us?" he asked thoughtfully, looking up at the dome above their heads. The rising chaos from outside their sanctuary didn't seem to bother him.

"I don't particularly want to chance it," Harry replied. He had spotted his wand, lying not a yard away from where the red shield came to an end. It was half-covered in snow, and as he watched, was kicked a little closer to them by a Death Eater, fleeing from the wolf. "Draco, can you sit up? We need my wand."

Draco's eyes shut tight again, and this time it took longer for him to open them. He frowned into Harry's face, not replying, as if he had forgotten where they were. "What?" he asked irritably. "Let me up, you ponce. I can sit up on my own."

Harry moved back slowly, letting Draco get his hands up and push himself to a kneeling position. He kept one eye on the battle as he did so, trying not to look in the faces of the Death Eaters around the barrier, who were screaming and cursing them. Draco didn't appear to even notice them; he was grumpily murmuring to himself, picking bits of dirt off of his sleeve. He trailed off abruptly, and Harry looked back, concerned.

Draco was staring at his hands, his eyes traveling over the fine cuts that mutilated his skin as though he hadn't realised they were there. Harry watched him, apprehensive, and jumped when a hollow boom shook their protective shield. Curses were bouncing off the barrier, shaking it down to the ground. "Alright, Draco?" he asked, without taking his eyes off the Death Eaters.

"Don't be daft," Draco muttered, and Harry paused, unsure if Draco was speaking to himself. Directly behind Draco's head, there was a brief struggle as the spectre of the red wolf charged down the Death Eaters that had gathered around them, knocking the whole lot asunder. Harry saw his opportunity.

"Stay put!" he called to Draco. Draco only looked at him, and in the split second before he dove through the barrier, Harry saw awareness return with frightening speed to Draco's grey eyes, coldness settling over his features.

Harry landed in a crouch on the other side, and stretched for his wand. A great cry rose up from the Death Eaters, and he bit back a shudder, not wanting to see whether they were shouting about Voldemort or himself.

His fingers grazed the wand, chill from lying in the snow, and relief rushed over him in the moment before he was knocked to the ground, and strong hands wrapped around his throat. He kicked violently, instinctively grabbing the grip around his neck, wrenching futilely. Lucius Malfoy was straddling him, his aristocratic face distorted and purple with rage. His teeth were bared, but he was completely silent as he slowly strangled Harry. Black spots rose in Harry's vision; what _was_ all that noise about? Where was Draco? Where was Sirius? Didn't anyone see that he needed help?

_They must have gotten Draco_, he thought, his struggles weakening. _Picked him off easily - he wasn't in any condition to fight._ His eyes burned, but he kept fighting, steel rising within him. Even if this was going to be the way he died, he wasn't going to make it easy for Lucius bloody Malfoy to do it.

A pale blur broadsided Malfoy, knocking him sprawling. Air hit Harry's lungs in a shocking, painful amount, and for a moment it was all he could do to gasp. His vision swam, his throat felt as though it'd been cut wide open as oxygen passed through it to his lungs. His brain screamed at his body to get up, get back to safety or get his wand or _do something_. His wand had vanished, snatched out of his hand at some point. Coughing, he rolled over onto his side - and discovered what had hit Lucius Malfoy.

They had rolled several feet, and had come to a stop with Draco on top of his father, Harry's wand in his fist. Harry struggled to focus on them, Lucius' growls echoing in his ears. Locked together, Harry's wand clutched the wrong way in Draco's hand, they became a hideous parody of familial resemblance, their teeth bared, their eyes flashing in the identical shade of grey. Even their skin - normally the same anemic pallor - was red and blotchy: Lucius with exertion, Draco with the blood that even now dripped into his father's upturned face.

"You _knew_," Draco snarled. His father's hands snatched at his wrists, seeking purchase and slipping down his arms, trying to hold Draco at bay. "You _knew_ it would come to this!"

"If you had any _spine_ -" Lucius bit out. Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows and tried to shout to Draco. His voice came out in a whispered croak. Around him, the noise was deafening. The world was monochromatic, black robes and glistening snow blinding and confusing him. A trail of blood marked Draco's trail from the protection of the red shield to Harry's right hand and to where the Malfoys had come to rest. He couldn't seem to focus on anything but father and son, nearly close enough to touch. Somewhere, he thought that someone was screaming his name.

"How could you do it to me?" Draco screamed. His left hand slipped from Lucius' grasp and fell hard. The butt end of Harry's wand struck Lucius on the mouth, splitting his lip cleanly. It rose and fell again and again, choking off whatever Lucius was trying to say, blood splattering on his face. Harry's mind shut down, stopped trying to convince his body to move. There was the taste of iron in his mouth. He was soaked through from laying on the snow, and shaking with cold. What he was seeing before him felt as alien as watching Draco twist under nightmares that first week they came to live with Remus and Sirius, as listening to stories of plans for Borneo and orang-utans.

All Harry could do was watch, mesmerized, as Draco beat his father, mercilessly, as though some terrifying, animal violence had taken over the boy he'd never before thought was broken beyond repair.

"Shut up shut _up_ - you're a monster - I don't want to hear you justify it, I don't care what your reasons were _I'm your son_ - you deserve to die -"

Lucius' hair was stained with blood - like Draco's hair. His face looked mashed up and bruised - like Draco's had in St. Mungo's. His right hand was lumpy and deformed from trying to fend off the blows - but still whole, like Draco's hand was not.

It was only when three Death Eaters pulled Draco off of Lucius, and he disappeared under their attack, that Harry finally moved. He was on his feet and launching himself at the nearest black-robed figure before his brain had even registered that he was off the ground. The man went down with a yell, and Harry caught a glimpse of Draco - nearly unrecognisable, but fighting like a wild animal against Voldemort's servants - before a heavy body slammed into him from behind. They fell in a ludicrous pile, knocking down the two that held Draco as well. Wands were forgotten; magic was forgotten; and fists met skulls and stomachs and Harry kicked and twisted and -

"Immobilus!"

The man on top of Harry, fist pulled back, froze and fell over into the snow. For a moment, there was shocked hesitation, and then strong hands were pulling Harry free from his assailants, wizards appearing from nowhere to Stun the Death Eaters that had them pinned to the ground. "What?" Harry asked, dazed. For the first time since he had made that thwarted dash for his wand, he looked out over the battlefield and realised what all the shouting had been about.

The Order of the Phoenix had arrived.

Voldemort was nowhere to be seen, but all around Harry there were unfamiliar witches and wizards dueling with the remaining Death Eaters. There was Snape - and Merlin, was that _Professor Moody?_ - and the battle seemed to be drawing to a close. Harry swayed on his feet, dizzy and too sore all over to determine where he'd actually been injured. At his side was a tall black wizard with a gold hoop through one ear, who apparently had been the one to pull Harry to his feet.

"Alright, Harry?" he asked in a slow, deep voice. Harry nodded, too dazed to ask how the wizard knew his name. The man turned away and lifted Draco easily out from under a tangle of Stunned bodies. "Good god," Harry heard him say under his breath when he got a look at the boy. Draco stumbled, and Harry and the other man moved forward instinctively.

The wizard caught him gingerly around the shoulders, stooping to peer into his face. "Draco Malfoy?" he asked. Draco winced and nodded, twisting to pull out of the man's grasp. Harry stepped up, opening his mouth to intercede when a shout cut him off.

It was Snape, calling Draco's name. He was running to meet them, his face bloodless and grimy. "Draco," he said again, moving between the black wizard to face his student. "What happened?" His voice was urgent, strained. Draco shied away, avoiding Snape's eyes. Harry restrained himself from moving between them, as Snape had done to cut off the other wizard, to shield Draco from that searching gaze.

"There was some kind of curse -" Harry started, and Snape cut in with an icy glare.

"I wasn't asking _you_, Potter."

Draco glanced up at that, looking startled. His eyes were still lit with that unnerving energy: nervous and angry and savage. He met Harry's gaze and looked away quickly, down at his hands, clearly taking silent stock of his appearance. His robes were torn and singed and hung at a crazy angle from his shoulders. It exposed the pale column of his throat, which was a patchwork of oozing wounds and flaky areas of dried blood. There was a livid bruise on one cheek, which made Draco seem even more flushed than he was. He seemed to be hesitating, still not looking into Snape's face.

Snape reached for Draco, as though he wanted to brush back the hair from his godson's face. His hand hung between them, motionless, caught between the words that Draco refused to say.

At a glance from Snape, the wizard moved off, heading towards the pond whether some of the Order had gathered, hauling the unconscious Death Eaters into a large pile. When the Potions professor tried to give him the same brush off, Harry stood his ground, staring Snape full in the face, daring Snape to order him to leave As if Snape had more right to talk to Draco anyway, he thought huffily.

"Draco," Snape said finally. He spoke as though every word hurt him. "I need to know what happened."

"_He_ put something inside of me," Draco said at last, jerking his chin in the direction of where his father lay, a crumpled heap in the snow. "You-Know - Vol - he - pulled it out of my mouth - " At this, Snape's eyes closed suddenly. " - and I don't know what happened after that. It gets hazy. It hurt - I - I don't remember. I remember this big red _thing_ ... it protected us." He glanced at Harry, as if for confirmation, and rubbed a hand over his stomach. "It felt a bit as though it came out of me."

Snape gasped. Harry's attention snapped to him. "What was it?" he asked quickly. "Do you know what happened?"

All the colour had drained from Snape's face, and he looked close to fainting. "Was it - " He hesitated, his voice as soft, as human as Harry had ever heard, "Did it look like a wolf?" Slowly, Draco nodded.

It was as though every bone in Snape's body broke, just a little bit. His face did not crumple, and he did not beat his breast and tear his hair, but it was though some small part of him was torn apart to die, without any sound at all, in the heartbeat that it took Snape to recover himself.

"When - " Snape began, and that was when Draco cried out.

It jerked Harry out of the stupor he hadn't even noticed falling into, a noise of anguish and shock. Draco stepped back, his eyes wide, and Harry followed his line of sight.

Lucius Malfoy had managed to turn himself onto his side, and had promptly pitched over, his right hand stretching for his wand, inches out of reach. One eye bulged grotesquely out of its socket, staring blindly into the snow, not quite smashed apart by the blows that Draco had rained upon his father's face. Blood leaked from Malfoy's nostrils, and when Draco cried out, everyone turned to look: the wizards from the Order, the Death Eaters who had regained consciousness, Harry, Snape and Lucius Malfoy himself ... and so it was that all of the witches and wizards who had come and fought so fiercely on their behalf - and the Boy Who Lived - became witnesses to the murder of Lucius Malfoy.

Father and son looked into each other's eyes and Lucius screamed, his teeth bared like an animal, his words garbled and nearly incomprehensible. "I knew you wouldn't have the _guts_, boy," he hissed, spitting flecks of blood and meat from the bloody hole that had been his mouth. Draco's cry of horror became a howl, and he was running forward -

shouts rose up around them, and Snape had caught Draco around the waist but Harry's wand was still clenched in Draco's hand -

and Harry, in a moment of decision that he would wonder about for the rest of his life, remained silent and unmoving, the voice of a young boy's love for his father washing over the horror of the wand, outstretched, and -

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

because on some level, Harry knew that Lucius Malfoy deserved it.

* * *

Entrusting Draco to Potter - as though the very idea of trusting Potter with _anything_ wasn't ludicrous - Snape headed back outside. The house smelled nauseatingly of old books and sage, and the silly trinkets that were littered about, the remains of last night's dinner still cluttering the sink, made his skull feel pinched. He passed Black on the stoop, sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest. Black didn't look up. 

Dumbledore had arrived at last, and was looking gravely over his ragtag Order. He met Snape's eyes as he approached, and nameless things passed between them, images and emotions too subtle for most of Snape's acquaintances to appreciate:

_Hasn't he been through enough?  
let him recuperate, talk to someone he trusts.  
It's unnecessary to involve the Ministry - you know that if it was Potter ..._

A ghost of a smile creased the corners of Dumbledore's beard, and he inclined his head slowly to Snape, acknowledging the point.

_It isn't so simple, Severus. You know that.  
The Curse -  
Only time will tell if Voldemort is finished with Mr. Malfoy._

With a snort and a bit of a flourish, Snape turned his back on the Order and went, cursing himself with every step, to Sirius Black. He stopped before the other man, and after a pause, Black looked up, his eyes betraying only a flicker of surprise. Snape hesitated, and then seated himself as gracefully as possible on the stoop beside Black. They stared out into the snow for a long moment, surveying the destruction that Voldemort and his followers had brought to the Farmhouse. Beyond the frozen pond, Snape could see a few of those ridiculous creatures that Remus kept, cautiously returning.

"When did it happen?" Snape asked, keeping his voice even.

Sirius' voice was quiet and nearly peaceful in tone. Some species of awe was written across his face. "Last night. He ... passed quickly."

Snape studied the ground, counting pebbles and strands of grass, struggling through the snow. "The wolf?"

Black nodded, his eyes distant. "It ... stood over me, and revived me, somehow. Maybe healed me, I'm ... not sure. But I looked up into its face ... I touched it ... I think he was saying goodbye." His hand stretched out, as though yearning for the muzzle of the wolf to reappear.

"It was supposed to be a last resort," Snape said bitterly. "I only brought him what he asked for."

"In case of his death," Black said softly.

"Yes," Snape said, his voice barely a whisper. "The Tutela Charm ... a very advanced form of the Patronus Charm. It is only activated after the caster's death ... a way of safe-guarding loved ones left behind. Re - Lupin remembered it - he and I were in an advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts class, seventh year. It's far more powerful than a Patronus, because a portion of the caster's soul is absorbed, forming a living barrier against the most devastating spells. It will ... be with them always."

Sirius' eyes closed, a strange, tight smile crossing his face. It cut a bright, humilating sort of pain across Snape's chest to see it. "I want him back so much," Sirius whispered harshly.

Snape's throat drew tight, choking him. Say it. _I do too._ Reach out. _I would give anything to have him back._ His hand clenched on his robes. He felt sixteen again, angry and embarrassed and knowing that it would never, ever be appropriate for him to speak like that - to open himself to vulnerability.

Silence stretched taut between them, and neither spoke. The span of years, the same bitterness and fear that had kept Remus from sharing with them the death that he knew was coming, welled up with unexpected quiet, an almost gentle knowledge that was reshaped and changed as they sat on the stoop and Snape knew that the two of them would never be the same again. They were the most unlikely and unworthy survivors of their generation, passed on and abandoned by the man that both of them had loved ... but the light of morning as it turned to chilly afternoon whitened and made bearable the realisation, the loss, and Snape found that he could breathe again.

Black's head dropped, one dirty hand reaching up to scratch his head. "Is Draco alright?"

Snape looked at him, his eyes flinty. "Hardly. But, I believe ... eventually, he will be fine, yes."

Black nodded. "He's a good kid. We - were lucky to have him with us." Snape said nothing. He could feel Dumbledore's stare on his bowed head, and knew he was needed for some matter or other. He stayed where he was, on the stoop with his childhood enemy, and the words he had swallowed sat heavy and painful in his stomach. He lifted his face to the light and wished that he could have seen the red wolf as well ... could have said goodbye.

* * *

Draco was shaking uncontrollably as Harry coaxed him inside, one arm wrapped around Draco's shoulders. His teeth were chattering - from cold or trauma or both, it was beyond Harry to guess. 

"Come on," he said softly, turning his head to speak directly into Draco's ear. His hair, matted with blood and dried into prickly spikes, tickled Harry's nose. "Let's get cleaned up."

Draco only sighed in response, a long, ponderous intake of breath. His eyes were faraway but clear, and he followed Harry willingly through the kitchen and up the stairs to the bathroom. They hesitated only a moment: the bathroom was opposite the open door of Remus and Sirius' bedroom, but strangly, the rucked-up bed inside ... was empty. They stood still before the yawning darkness of the bedroom, eyes wandering over folds of blankets and pillows. Absurdly, Harry had the sudden urge to make the bed. But even clean, Harry thought, it wouldn't have the look of something anybody could ever sleep in again.

It would be days yet before they would understand what that empty bedroom meant. As they stood, arm in arm in the hallway, all that mattered was that beyond all odds, they had faced Voldemort yet again and bested him. Later would come explanations, regrets, questions. They leaned heavily on one another, their shivering slowly abating as they shared heat. Silently, they turned away from the empty, shadowed bedroom. Harry abandoned Draco at the sink to turn on the shower for him.

"Er," he said, "You should probably - get out of those clothes, they're all ... dirty," he finished lamely, colouring a bit. He tested the tap with his fingers, checking the water's temperature. "I'll go get you some other things to wear." He stood, shaking droplets of water from his fingertips.

"No," Draco said suddenly. "Can you - stay with me?"

Harry nodded slowly. It was the first thing Draco had said since the battle had finished. His face was a confusing mixture of emotions. He stared into Harry's face as though searching for something, and Harry shifted under his heavy gaze.

"Do you need help with your clothes?" Harry asked. The shower roared in his ears. Draco blinked, as though he had forgotten why they were in the bathroom at all.

"Harry," he said slowly. "Harry, I killed my dad."

Harry looked at him and found nothing to say. Instead, he stepped forward, reaching out to tug off Draco's cloak. He folded it carefully and set it on the toilet. Dried blood rained off its surface as he bent the stiffening fabric, scattering about on the neat stone floor. Draco had worn a patched, long-sleeve shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms to bed. They clung to his skin, sealed to his body. Harry thought of a pair of old knickers he'd found while emptying the Dursley's kitchen bin once, when he was nine or so, a dark, embarrassing stain right in the crotch of it. He'd known what it meant, had picked up snatches of explanation from boys at school, but to see the discarded remains of that mysterious, female blood had been embarassing and obscurely frightening.

He pushed the image quickly out of his head, and reached for the bottom of Draco's shirt. He didn't know if Draco was in any shape to undress himself, as weird as it would be to do it for him. He tugged experimentally at the hem, and Draco winced.

"It's stuck," he said, brushing Harry's hands away. "It's dried on to me."

"Oh," Harry said uncertainly. They looked at one another silently. Draco looked away after a long moment, one hand reaching out to briefly entangle his fingers with Harry's own in an apologetic squeeze. His grasp felt dry and faintly itchy.

"I'll just wash the way I am," Draco said, with a wry, absent smile. "I don't want to save these rags anyway."

Harry nodded. It was dizzying, to be thinking about such mundane things as folding or cleaning clothes. He looked down at himself, and found to his surprise that he was also completely filthy. His pajamas were soaked through with blood and dirt and snow. He studied the waistband of his bottoms and tried to count the minutes since they had faced Voldemort and won. His body felt strangely unharmed. It would be hours yet before he felt like himself again, before the aches and bruises that covered him made themselves known.

Later, Harry would feel almost ... grateful to Snape for passing Draco so brusquely off to him and giving them the time to be clean again. Outside the cottage that they had fought, danced, laughed and lived in, decisions were being made: where they would go from here, what could possibly be done with Draco, the future of the Order of the Phoenix, Harry, Sirius, Voldemort. Within hours, a dozen Death Eaters would be dumped at the Ministry of Magic's doorstep, swearing under Veritaserum that Voldemort had returned, and the wizarding world would change.

Harry and Draco knew nothing of this. Draco climbed, fully dressed, into the shower, bowing his head under the spray. Pink-tinted water cascaded down his cheeks and off his chin. A warm, animal smell washed over the room as blood ran from his hair, his clothing. Slowly, Draco began to strip off his clothing.

Harry swayed on his feet, exhausted and strangely too aware of the fact that he'd never seen Draco naked before. Although Harry often slept only in shorts on hot nights, Draco seemed to prefer to be dressed at all times. He would change his shirt in front of Harry, but never everything else.

Harry could have kicked himself for thinking of a thing like _that_ at a time like _this_ ... when he should be trying to be nice and understanding and it would be so much easier if he had Hermione here, telling him what to do. Even if she wouldn't want to see Draco naked, and Harry did, and that seemed to be the issue. It remained heavy in his mind as Draco peeled his pants off his body, nudging them with his foot into the corner of the tub. He looked up at Harry, his grey eyes startling in the wash of blood and dirt across his face, and Harry drifted closer, helplessly.

"You're not a bad person," Harry said, stepping into the shower and pulling Draco close. "He deserved it and you're a good person."

Draco's head dropped onto his shoulder and his arms went around Harry. His skin was slippery and superheated under Harry's hands. "He's really dead, isn't he?" he asked wistfully.

Harry ran his hands down Draco's back, washing away the blood that had dried there. His clothes were heavy on his own body, uncomfortably hot but vaguely frightening to consider removing. He pressed his lips to Draco's neck carefully. There were wounds all over Draco's body that broke open again and began to bleed sluggishly, but Draco didn't seem to notice.

"I forgot to tell you something," he murmured in Harry's ear, and unexpectedly giggled.

"What's that?" Harry said.

Draco leaned against him, forehead to forehead, pulling Harry's glasses from his face where they had fogged up and blinded him, tossing them onto the floor. His smile was lopsided, his eyes the colour of the sea after a storm.

"When they were sixteen - Remus and Sirius and your father and Wormtail - they were big troublemakers. I suppose you already know that. For your dad's sixteenth birthday, they made all these cookies and such with gillyweed baked into them. Remus said that if you cook the gillyweed into something - oh, thank you ... is my hair clean yet? - it's much, much more potent. They didn't know that, so they ate the whole lot between them. Here - you've got dirt on you. Take your shirt off."

"Thanks."

"So there were a lot of embarrassing little details - later on that night, Sirius nearly killed himself with a toilet - he had the brilliant idea of using a Reductor Curse to try and get the Sneakoscope out that Wormtail had thrown into it, and had a big shard of porcelain lodge in his stomach when it exploded, but they convinced Remus to put on a strip tease for them. Ow. What was that? I didn't even notice that ... I can't believe there's so much - _damage_ - I barely feel it. I'm numb all over but I'm ... warm with you - Harry - thank you for staying with me ..."

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of water on flesh and tile, the air becoming cooler as they were washed clean, blood swirling down the drain and passing into memory, and Harry brushed the tears from Draco's cheeks and wrapped his arms around him, slender limbs winding around his own body, indistinguishable where one ended and the other began but for skin tone.

"So Remus gave Sirius a lap dance, I think he called it ... might have done the same for your father, but he was a little unclear on that point. He was so concerned about what he had done afterwards, but being sort of out of his head, all he could do was sing this song over and over - and that was the song we listened to, about that girl who strips to the polka."

Harry's eyes were closed, the darkness overwhelming and comforting, Draco's face buried in his neck, his voice muffled. He felt like one giant being of light and heat, washed clean of everything but the slender, naked boy in his arms, the water that ran between their bodies and over their faces. "So that's what Remus refused to tell us? It's not so bad."

Draco laughed, faintly. "That's what I said. He made such a stink about a little story. Although Sirius nearly dying by toilet was hilarious." He lifted his head. "I think the water is getting colder."

Harry only wrapped his arms around Draco tighter, squeezing briefly. "How long d'you think we've been in here?"

Draco smiled. "Doesn't matter. Nothing matters."

"Yeah," Harry said. The _rightness_ of it spread through his body and he could have laughed and howled and thrown his hands up in the air and kissed Draco because _god_, it was _over_ and they were safe. "That's right. Nothing matters. You're with me and we're safe and you're home."

**FIN.**

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**I want to say thank you so much to all the people who have supported this story and me personally throughout its very very long lifespan. Your comments, reviews and friendship have meant the world to me over the past year and more, and this story wouldn't be half of what it is without you. Special thanks to aralias, who was the very first fan this story ever had; lilchickadee, who was instrumental in helping to shape this fic into what it became; lildove42, who is probably the reason that it's been finished at all; resmiranda, who gave me this journal because of it; frogslayr, who has helped me understand the story itself better with her lovely lists; gryffinjack and Max who beta'd; everyone who has left such kind reviews, everybody who popped in to ask for updates, and everyone who remembered about this little fic. Thank you all so much. 

Also, there is an epilogue, which I'm not able to upload onto because it's rated NC-17. But I'm quite proud and still wanted to share it, so anybody who would like to read the epilogue can find it at my LiveJournal, hansbekhart, under my memories (Casualties 13 epilogue). I really really wish I could provide a direct link to it, butFanfiction dot netseems to really hate me tonight. If anyone knows a way I could do so, please let me know.


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